End of an Era
by Biggles Mad
Summary: Ginger centric Biggles yarn set in the era of Biggles Secret Agent. Ginger severs his last link to his coal mining origins, and gets tangled up in the Anschluss. By HRH.
1. Shocks for Ginger

**The End of An Era**

**Chapter 1**

**Shocks for Ginger**

The twin-engined aircraft gleamed in the sunlight. A smart monoplane, equipped with the latest technology, it stood in front of the hangar ready to take to the skies. At the edge of the hard standing, as close as they dared approach, two small boys whispered to each other as they argued about what type it was.

Inside the cabin of the aircraft, a Cormorant which the Air Commodore had put at their disposal, Algy and Ginger were stowing the last of the provisions. They went about their tasks quickly and methodically, waiting for Biggles to join them. Smyth, their mechanic, accompanied Biggles as he did the last of the external pre-flight checks before departure.

Algy glanced at his watch, whistling softly between his teeth as he and Ginger made sure everything was secure. At last, all the stores were safely packed away and there was nothing to keep them from their mission. Ginger, for one, hated the last minutes before take off. His restless spirit longed to be on the move and inaction irked him.

Biggles had just rounded the wing, about to join Smyth and climb into the cabin prior to take off, when a Post Office telegram boy puffed up to the machine on his bicycle.

"Mr Hepplethwitt?" he enquired of Biggles.

"That's Hebblethwaite," corrected Biggles automatically, accustomed to Ginger's surname being mangled. "He's in the cabin." He indicated the open door of the aircraft.

The telegram boy dismounted and would have leaned his bicycle against the fuselage but for Smyth's furious shout. The bicycle clattered to the ground.

Alerted by the commotion, Ginger appeared at the doorway. "What's going on?" he wanted to know. "What's all the noise about?"

"There's a telegram for you," Biggles informed him briskly.

Ginger looked puzzled. "Who on earth would be sending me a telegram?" he mused.

"Well if you open it instead of standing there, you'll find out," Biggles pointed out with asperity. "Hurry up! The Air Commodore said this job was urgent."

Ginger stepped down from the aircraft and took the buff envelope, tearing it open. As he read the message his face drained of colour and his hands shook.

"Are you alright?" Biggles asked him, unnecessarily. It was obvious that the news had given Ginger a severe shock. "What is it?"

"Me Da'," replied Ginger huskily, unconsciously falling back into his childhood idiom.

Biggles frowned. "What on earth does he want? He hasn't bothered to contact you for years. Why has he suddenly decided to send you a telegram?"

Ginger shook his head. "It isn't from him," he explained, regaining his normal speech. "It's from Mrs Lamb."

Biggles could have shaken Ginger, but he repressed the urge. Whatever was in the telegram had clearly affected the lad deeply. Instead of wasting time questioning the young man, he held out his hand. "May I read it?"

Wordlessly, Ginger passed over the slip of paper.

Biggles glanced at the message. He had barely got beyond "Regret to inform you …" when he realised why Ginger had reacted as he had.

"Any reply?" broke in the telegram boy with a hint of impatience in his tone, accustomed to the effects of his delivery. In his experience, telegrams seldom brought good news.

"Not at the moment," Biggles told him.

With a shrug, the youth picked up his bicycle, swung his leg over the crossbar and rode off, wobbling erratically.

"The funeral's on Friday," murmured Ginger, finding his voice at last.

"I'll get in touch with the Air Commodore," began Biggles but Ginger shook his head.

"You and Algy carry on. I'll stay here and deal with it."

Biggles looked at him compassionately as he handed back the telegram. "Are you sure you'll be alright? I don't like the idea of leaving you to deal with this alone. One of us ought to be with you."

"You said yourself a moment ago, the Air Commodore insisted this job was urgent. There's no time to waste. I'll make my own way to Linz once this is all over, if you haven't wrapped it up by then."

"Take the Bentley to drive up," offered Biggles, groping in his pocket and holding out the keys.

"Thanks," muttered Ginger, taking the keys from the man who had been more of a father to him than his own flesh and blood. In a daze he stowed them in his jacket.

Algy poked his head out of the cabin door and addressed Biggles. "What's keeping you?" he asked. "Haven't you got those checks done yet? Is there some sort of problem?"

Ginger turned and answered quietly, "No, no problem. You're cleared for take off."

Algy disappeared back into the cabin.

Ginger took a deep breath. "Explain when you're airborne," he muttered and strode off towards the airport buildings before Biggles could say any more.

With a quick glance at Smyth, Biggles gestured towards the door. "Get in," he ordered laconically. "We're running late." He took a last look at Ginger's retreating back as the young man made his way across to the airport buildings then slammed the door.

Ginger heard the Cormorant take off but did not turn to watch. His heart was heavy. He longed to be with his comrades, but he had one last, filial duty to perform.

Biggles had left his car in the garage so Ginger took a taxi back to Mount Street, his mind in turmoil. Images of the past crowded in as he was driven back to Biggles' flat. He thought back to his childhood in the small mining village where he had been brought up. He and his father had not got on well and Ginger still bore the scars on his back where he had not been quick enough to evade a drunken beating. He had soon learned, he thought bitterly.

Ginger's cheeks burned as he remembered the bitter shame he had experienced when his father had confronted Biggles in their threadbare parlour when the airman had gone north to put his guardianship of the lad on a regular footing. Firstly Mr Hebblethwaite had demanded compensation for the loss of his son, although he hadn't quite put it like that. It had seemed that the loss of Ginger's potential earnings as a miner and his contributions to the household budget had been of greater importance than the boy's physical absence in London. As if that weren't enough, Ginger had been excruciatingly embarrassed by the interpretation that his father had put on Biggles' request for guardianship. Ginger had wished the ground would open up and swallow him when his father impugned Biggles' motives for wishing Ginger to come and live in Mount Street with him. To his credit, Mr Hebblethwaite had been wise enough to withdraw the slur on seeing the look in Biggles' eyes. Grudgingly he had grunted that "mebbe it weren't that". Ginger cringed inwardly, the memory still raw, even after the intervening years and all their adventures together.

Ginger could picture his father now, as he had been when he had last seen him, a sour and embittered man. Hebblethwaite senior's parting words still rang in his ears; "Too good fer us, are yer? Gooin' off wi' yer la-di-da marrers and yer fancy ideas! If yer go and break yer neck, it'll be yer own fault! Divven't come back here!" he had shouted angrily before he disappeared into the two up, two down and slammed the door behind him.

Ginger had accompanied Biggles south once more after that meeting feeling a mixture of relief and sadness. Relief that he could now live the life that he wanted with friends who valued him for what he was, not what he was supposed to be, but sadness that he couldn't reach his only living relative and make him understand or accept the way he felt.

Now, reflected Ginger, he was again experiencing relief and sadness. Relief that it was finally over and sadness for what might have been had his father been more amenable. Guilt tinged his thoughts, too. He ought not to feel relief that his father was dead, he thought, although the two had been estranged since Ginger had left home at 15. He had always tried to be a dutiful son, but it had been hard in the face of his father's implacable opposition to his chosen lifestyle. At first Ginger had written dutifully, until the gaps between his letters and postcards had grown longer and longer before finally dwindling to nothing. Ginger grieved as much for the lost opportunities as the breaking of his last surviving family ties.

Ginger surfaced from his reverie as the taxi driver repeated more loudly, "'Ere you are, mate! Mount Street!"

He alighted and fumbled in his pocket for the fare. "Keep the change," he murmured, pushing a note into the cabby's outstretched hand.

"Fanks, Gov!" the driver blurted gratefully, looking at Ginger with surprise. Ginger smiled wryly, remembering his exchange with the taxi driver after he had first met Biggles and his reckless offer of an extra ten shillings. "My money's as good as anybody's" he had boasted then. Well, it had been Biggles' money really, he mused, as he went into the building and climbed to the flat he had shared with his mentor since that epic encounter.

He let himself in. Mrs Symes came out of the kitchen, surprised at his unexpected return. Briefly Ginger explained the reason and accepted the housekeeper's condolences. She bustled off back to the kitchen to make him a cup of tea and some sandwiches while he went to his room and took down the leather suitcase with his initials which Algy had given him when he went to hospital to have his tonsils removed.

It was the work of a moment to pack his small kit and change into a dark suit with a black tie. As he adjusted the knot, checking his reflection in the mirror, Ginger could not help contrasting his present image with the ragamuffin he had been when he had met Biggles for the first time. He thought of Algy's insistence on his buying new clothes in Newcastle and smiled faintly. Patting his pockets to make sure that he had transferred everything he needed, he took his suitcase into the sitting room and closed the bedroom door behind him.

Mrs Symes brought in tea and cakes on a tray, clucking over him like a mother hen. Ginger smiled his gratitude, not feeling much like eating. The thought of the long journey north alone depressed him as much as the coming obsequies. He had insisted that Biggles left, but the plain truth was that he was missing his presence dreadfully.

Ginger did his best to do justice to Mrs Symes' culinary efforts and accepted her packed lunch gratefully. It was a long journey up to Northumberland and he knew that he would be ravenous before he reached his destination.

With a heavy heart he left the flat and walked to the garage where Biggles kept his motor car. His mind on other things, he negotiated the busy streets automatically until he was finally able to swing Biggles' Bentley onto the Great North Road and put his foot down.


	2. A testing time

**Chapter 2**

**A Testing Time**

"You shouldn't have let him go on his own! What on earth were you thinking of? For heaven's sake!" The raised voice was Algy's from the co-pilot's seat. Biggles was surprised at his vehemence. He had seldom heard his cousin so worked up.

"Ginger is no longer a child, Algy," expostulated Biggles in his defence. "He'll be 19 in September. Besides," he added, "I offered to go with him. He insisted we carried on and completed the mission. The Air Commodore did stress how urgent it was."

"Of course he insisted!" exclaimed Algy. "What else would you expect? He'd rather die than interfere with a mission, especially as Raymond made such a big thing of it. It doesn't mean that it's right to let him face this alone."

"You forget, Algy," countered Biggles uncomfortably. "Ginger has a lot more experience of the world now than when we first met him. He's seen men die – he's even had to kill them himself."

"That doesn't excuse it," accused Algy, "and he found that upsetting enough, in all conscience, even with us to turn to. Besides, it's not the same as when your last remaining relative has to be buried," he added. "Ginger is completely alone now apart from us."

Biggles shifted uneasily in his seat. He had not been happy with his decision to let Ginger go north alone to bury his father, but he knew that there was no other choice. In his heart of hearts, Biggles knew that Algy, too, acknowledged that there was no alternative, despite his ranting at the situation once he had realised they had taken off and left the lad behind. Even the usually imperturbable Smyth had expressed misgivings, Biggles recalled, when he had boarded without the youngster. He admitted to himself that his reassurances to the mechanic had sounded as hollow then as his attempts to set Algy's mind at rest did now.

"I don't like it any more than you do," he confessed, "but given the importance of the professor's work, could we really do otherwise? The Air Commodore was most insistent that time was of the essence."

Algy looked far from mollified, but he conceded grudgingly, "yes, I suppose you're right. I don't like to think of Ginger dealing with it all by himself, though," he concluded. "He's a good kid, he doesn't deserve that."

Biggles stifled his own misgivings, contenting himself with saying, "don't worry about him, Algy, he's grown up now. It won't be pleasant for him, but he'll cope."

Algy fell silent, keeping any further thoughts to himself. The monotonous drone of the engines remained the only sound in the cockpit as the miles passed. Eventually it was Biggles who broke the lull.

"Keep a sharp lookout," he warned, "and tell Smyth to watch our tail. We should be getting close to the border with Germany now. I'm aiming to stay on the Swiss side, but you never know if the Huns might be putting out patrols."

Algy gave him the thumbs up and disappeared into the cabin to warn the mechanic. When he had returned and settled himself in his seat once more, he started to scan the sky methodically as Biggles flew down the valley and over the lakes towards Basle. Altering course to swing away from the danger zone as he neared the German border, Biggles skilfully began to weave his way through the mountains of Switzerland, heading towards Austria.

Algy glanced at the unfriendly terrain below and listened more acutely to the throb of the engines. Any problems now would mean almost certain disaster among the peaks that crowded beside the aircraft. Thankfully, the Rolls Royce engines never missed a beat.

Soon they were flying through the passes of the Alps, threading their way past the Italian border and following the contours into Innsbruck. Algy yawned, as much from tension as tiredness, but did not relax his vigilance; they might have slipped safely past the Italians, but he knew that they were nearing the point where the German border intruded into Austria near Salzburg, and that therein lay their greatest risk of being intercepted.

Biggles altered course again. It was physically as well as mentally tiring weaving the aircraft through the valleys and passes. One miscalculation and their mission would end on the side of a mountain. Algy stole a look at his cousin; Biggles' face was impassive as he concentrated on the job in hand. Algy's eyes swept the skies again. The tension in the cockpit was almost palpable.

A small dot on the port side caught Algy's attention. He rubbed his eyes, looked away and focussed on it again. It was still there; definitely another aircraft. He reached across and touched Biggles on the arm, pointing to what from its position could only be an enemy.

"I've seen it," Biggles acknowledged tersely, altering his course slightly to present as small a target as possible.

For a moment Algy thought they had been spotted. The small dot grew larger, heading towards them, but then he saw it change shape as the pilot turned away. Unable to relax, he watched it for several minutes until it disappeared from sight.

Unaware that he'd been holding his breath, he let it out in a small sigh as he informed Biggles of their escape.

"Keep your eyes peeled," was Biggles' only response. "He may have friends and their eyesight might be a bit better."

Algy nodded and went back to sweeping the sky. It was monotonous, demanding and hard on the eyes, he thought, but absolutely vital to their mission. If they were shot down on the way into Austria, they would let everybody down, he reflected. So many lives were depending on their success. He was reassured that Smyth was in the cabin, doing exactly the same. Four eyes were better than two when it came to this game.

Several times Algy thought he saw another aircraft, but when he looked away and looked back it had disappeared, his eyes playing tricks on him. He dare not relax his vigilance. That these had proved to be false alarms was no guarantee that the next speck would not turn out to be an interceptor. The minutes passed, each seeming longer than the last. An aircraft is the swiftest means of transport, but its progress across the sky seen from the ground often seems to be at a snail's pace. So it seemed for Algy now, longing for an end to the aching tension as he methodically swept each sector of sky in turn.

The Cormorant droned on, each minute bringing it nearer to its destination, each second that they were not detected increasing their chances of reaching Linz safely.

The scenery began to change. Ahead and to their left, the mountains flattened out, the plain stretching out invitingly towards the Bavarian border, but Biggles edged away, keeping to the defiles and narrow passes. It was more demanding flying, but it lessened their chance of discovery.

They were nearly at their destination now. Algy risked a swift glance at his watch and spared a thought for Ginger. The lad must be well on his way north by now, he guessed, as his eyes meticulously swept the horizon for the hundredth time.


	3. The Air Commodore explains

**Chapter 3**

**The Air Commodore Explains**

Ginger glanced at his watch as the Bentley ate up the miles. Biggles and Algy must be nearly in Austria, he thought. His mind went back to the briefing in the Air Commodore's office – was it only a few days ago? he mused. It seemed like a lifetime since he had taken his seat behind Biggles, listening as the Air Commodore had offered cigarettes and cleared his throat before asking for their help. Ginger recalled reading warnings about the dangers of Appeasement in magazines like _Popular Flying_ and had been vaguely aware of what had been happening in Germany, but until the Air Commodore spoke, he had had no idea of the unrest that was building up on its border.

The Air Commodore's announcement of the annexation of Austria – he had called it the _Anschluss _– and the riots in Linz had taken him by surprise. While he was digesting this unpalatable information, the Air Commodore came to the purpose of the meeting.

"Our Embassy in Vienna has received a request from Professor Meier," the Air Commodore informed them. Ginger had been about to ask who he was, but Raymond had forestalled him. "His is not a name you are likely to be familiar with, but suffice it to say he is a very important scientist and a top man in his field."

"Which is?" Biggles enquired, tapping the ash from his cigarette.

"Aero engines," replied the Air Commodore. "His expertise could be of great value to Germany, but as the Professor is a Jew, he is unwilling to give them any help. In fact, he contacted us to get him and his family away to England. He is desperately afraid for his wife and child. He thinks he himself might be safe as long as he was prepared to work for the Reich, despite the current political climate, but anything might happen to his family. He is particularly concerned that they might be used as hostages to force him to develop new engines for Germany. He is absolutely convinced that the Chancellor, Herr Hitler, is intent on going to war."

"He's not the only one," Ginger heard Algy mutter under his breath and smiled faintly.

"What do you want us to do about it?" inquired Biggles quizzically. "Snatch him from under their noses?"

"I knew you would understand," averred the Air Commodore smoothly. "The Air Ministry will provide you with an aircraft and the Department of Trade will furnish you with a cover story. You will be members of a trade delegation sent to Linz with a view to buying new heavy plant machinery. There is a trade fair due to start on the 17th."

"Stone the crows!" ejaculated Biggles. "You don't want much, do you? I suppose," he continued cynically, "that if all this blows up in our faces the Government will deny all knowledge of us."

The Air Commodore shifted uncomfortably. "I thought so," muttered Biggles.

"It _is_ vitally important," emphasised the Air Commodore. "Our Embassy in Berlin has got wind of new legislation about to be enacted in Vienna. The Jewish Laws, as they are called, will be in place within a couple of days and will severely restrict the rights of Jews. That will make your task of getting the Professor and his family to England much more difficult."

Biggles drew thoughtfully on his cigarette, but said nothing. Ginger had watched him closely, knowing that his mentor would not refuse and experiencing a frisson of anticipation at the dangerous mission.

"If Germany gets hold of the Professor's plans and develops them and there _is_ a war, as is looking increasingly likely, I need hardly tell you that the consequences for this country could be very grave indeed," elaborated the Air Commodore earnestly. "Thousands of lives could be lost. A bomber that could go faster than our latest fighters would be impossible to stop; cities could be reduced to rubble and the nation's morale completely destroyed. Fighters that can outstrip our best machines would be able to shoot down our pilots like sitting ducks."

"There's no need to get so worked up," Biggles reassured him finally. "You know I couldn't refuse." He glanced at Algy. "What about you, laddie?"

"Hitler is a bully," observed Algy. "Someone needs to give him his comeuppance."

Biggles nodded. Ginger had met his eyes as Biggles turned towards him. "This won't be a picnic, Ginger," Biggles had told him, "do you want to come with us?"

For a moment, Ginger had felt hurt that Biggles had doubted his courage and resolve, but then he realised that what lay behind the question was nothing of the sort. Biggles felt responsible for him and did not want to put him in danger. "Do I?" he had responded with enthusiasm. "Just try and leave me behind!"

The irony of his reply was not lost on Ginger as he put his foot on the accelerator speeding towards a confrontation with his past. In the event, circumstances, not Biggles, had dictated that he would be left behind.

The days following the meeting had passed quickly in a flurry of preparation. The Air Commodore had been as good as his word; a new aircraft, the Cormorant, had been delivered to Croydon immediately and put at their disposal. Biggles had inspected it carefully and declared himself satisfied.

"It looks up to the job," Algy had concurred after a test flight with Ginger in the co-pilot's seat. "Good range, good cruising speed, wide undercarriage and a delight to fly. Raymond certainly seems to have come up with the goods for us."

Biggles nodded, making notes on a pad. Their mechanic, Smyth, had taken charge and had the machine moved into a hangar for a thorough overhaul before their departure. The machine was standard, except for a few modifications Biggles had requested, chief among them being a secret compartment near the tail so that they could store weapons and ammunition without risk of discovery should the machine be searched on arrival.

Smyth reported to Biggles that he was satisfied the compartment was undetectable.

"Good work," acknowledged Biggles. "Have the stores arrived yet?"

Smyth nodded. "There's a primus and crates of bully beef, biscuits, tea, coffee, tinned milk and jam. Oh, and some bars of chocolate as well," he added, with a sidelong look at Ginger. He paused and dropped his voice. "I've put the revolvers and ammunition in the compartment ready," he continued. "Best not to let anyone see them lying around."

"Isn't it going to look a bit odd taking all that stuff on a trade delegation?" queried Algy. "I mean, we're going to be booking into a hotel when we get there, aren't we?"

"If anyone questions it, we'll just have to convince them we're eccentric Englishmen," murmured Biggles. "You shouldn't find it too hard," he added with a grin.

Ginger laughed, but Algy refused to be drawn. "We'll blame it on Ginger's appetite," he responded smoothly. "Where you put it all, Ginger, I can't imagine," he continued, looking at the lad's slim figure.

Ginger grinned as Biggles reminded them, "that's enough fooling. We could be glad of having plenty of provisions if things turn out badly. There have been riots in the streets. Who knows what state the hotels will be in or whether there will be any cafés or restaurants open. At least with this lot in the Cormorant, we'll be independent. If the worst comes to the worst, we can always sleep in the aircraft as well, even if it means a tight squeeze."

And so the stores had been stowed, reflected Ginger as he headed for Darlington, and the telegram had arrived that set off the train of events which had led to his journey north.

He needed to concentrate more now. Scotch Corner was behind him and the nearer he got to his old home, the more the memories kept crowding in. Concentrating on the road helped him keep them at bay.

Negotiating Darlington with relatively little difficulty, he pointed the long nose of Biggles' Bentley towards Durham and his next stop, Newcastle.

Listening to the beat of the steadily purring engine Ginger could not help reliving his meeting with Biggles and acknowledging the impact that had had on his life. Without irony, he recognised that Biggles had been more of a father to him than the man he was speeding north to bury. His mind strayed to the present. A glance at his watch told him that Biggles, Algy and Smyth should be almost at their destination. He sighed inaudibly, realising he had at least 30 miles to cover before he reached home.

'Home'. The unexpectedness of the word caught him by surprise. It had been some time since he had considered the two-up, two-down back-to-back where he had been brought up 'home'. Mount Street had been his home in every sense for the last four years. Ginger tried to analyse his feelings, but gave up. He knew he would have to confront his past soon enough.

He was feeling tired now. The emotion and the strain of driving north to face the coming ordeal were beginning to tell. On a whim, passing Cramlington, he pulled into the airfield. There was a small café by the clubhouse. Half expecting to see Algy materialise out of the past, he walked across the grass and entered, seeing himself once more a small, fifteen year old boy who had had the temerity to send a telegram to a perfect stranger.

"Do you serve non-members?" he asked the waitress, a small, dark-haired girl with a pale face and a sulky pout.

"Whey aye, canny lad," the woman behind the counter assured him as the waitress stared at him and did not respond, "set yoursel' doon and Mavis'll tek your order."

Ginger chose a seat near the window. He could see the light planes doing circuits and bumps. When the waitress came to him, he ordered a pot of coffee for one, thinking it would help to keep him awake.

Mavis, as Ginger supposed her to be, flounced off. He could hear cups rattling in the kitchen behind the counter. When she reappeared, Ginger was amused to see that she had pinched her cheeks and bitten her lips to encourage some colour.

"You're not from roon' here, then?" she queried as she placed the cup in front of him.

"What makes you say that?" parried Ginger, reaching for the coffee pot. He had forgotten how friendly and naturally inquisitive his fellow Geordies were.

"You divven't soon' like us," she observed astutely. "From doon sooth, are you?"

Ginger nodded. "I live in London," he admitted, salving his conscience that it was no less than the truth now.

"London!" the girl exclaimed, her eyes lighting up. "I've allus dreamt of gannin' to London! Is it like you see in the fillums; you kna', the Pathe newsreels an' all? Have you seen the King?" She looked at him as if he had just stepped out of a Gaumont film.

Ginger smiled at her enthusiasm and was disarmed by her eager questioning, which struck a chord with his own youthful infatuation with the cinema. "No, it isn't all ceremonies and good times," he tried to disabuse her star-struck notions, "but yes, I have seen the King and he looks just like he does in the newsreel."

Mavis gaped at him open mouthed and it took several sharp repeats of her name by the woman behind the counter to drag her attention away. As she turned reluctantly back to her duties, Ginger called out to her.

"If you really want to go to London, Mavis," he advised. "You should do it. Don't let anything stand in your way. Lyons Coffee Houses will always take on a good waitress."

The woman behind the counter hustled the waitress into the kitchen. Ginger heard her say, "filling your head with them fancy ideas …" as the door swung shut behind them.

He finished his coffee in silence, thinking of his own determination to get to London to join the Air Force or just watch the aeroplanes landing and taking off on their international journeys. They, too, had been 'fancy ideas', but he had never regretted acting on them. He wondered if Mavis would take his advice and secretly hoped that she would.

As he searched in his pocket for change to pay his bill, he came across an old receipt from a Lyons Coffee House near the Strand where he and Algy had had tea a few days previously while Biggles was busy at the Air Ministry. He looked to see if the address was on the receipt and found that it was: 121 Kingsway. On a sudden impulse he took a pound note from his wallet, wrapped the receipt around it, wrote "Mavis" on the outside and slipped the tip under his saucer with the coins for his drink.

He gathered his belongings and left. As he went past the window on his way to Biggles' Bentley, he saw Mavis clearing his table. When he drew away from the clubhouse, he thought he caught a glimpse of her in the doorway, staring after the departing car, and smiled to himself. He may not have been able to do as much for her as Biggles had for him, but at least he had given her an opportunity for a new life, he reflected. The rest was up to her.


	4. Unexpected snag number one

**Chapter 4**

**Unexpected Snag Number One**

"That's Linz ahead," breathed Biggles at last, peering through the windscreen. "It looks as though we've made it."

Algy nodded, his eyes still diligently sweeping the sky as Biggles started his approach, keeping the river on his right as he descended onto the airfield.

The wheels touched and Algy let out his breath as the aircraft rumbled to a halt. "Well, we're here," he announced. "What next?"

"I rather think that depends on those officious looking fellows who are coming over to have a word with us," murmured Biggles, his eyes on the airport buildings.

Algy followed his cousin's gaze and saw two stout men in grey uniforms, stomping across the hard-standing. "Tweedledum and Tweedledee," he declared facetiously. "I wonder what they want."

"It doesn't exactly look like a welcoming committee," muttered Biggles. "Now we find out if the Department of Trade have done their job properly."

The two armed officials demanded to see their papers, which Biggles handed over without demur. Algy watched as the Austrians scrutinised their permits, rustling the sheets as they shuffled them. After what seemed an interminable time, the uniformed reception committee handed the paperwork back with a grunt of "_in Ordnung_".

Algy breathed a sigh of relief, which he soon realised was premature as the officials began to search the cabin. To his dismay they were very thorough. Biggles and Algy watched, trying to appear nonchalant while Smyth stood impassive by the cabin door. Biggles caught Algy's eye as the officials examined the stores, moving them from one side of the cabin to the other. The tension in the atmosphere was almost palpable when the officials reached the hidden compartment. Algy silently prayed that it was as invisible as Smyth had assured them. Biggles lit a cigarette and proffered his case to the customs men. The stouter of the two was about to accept a cigarette when his companion brusquely ordered him to refuse. Biggles shrugged, drew deeply on his cigarette and blew the smoke into the air where it hung in a thin cloud.

To the comrades' relief, the two officials finished their inspection and left. Biggles and Algy watched them march across to the main airport building. Smyth broke the silence.

"That was a close one, sir," he commented to Biggles. "I thought he was going to poke and prod until he'd found the compartment. Then the game would have been up."

Biggles nodded. "I think we'd better not leave the machine unattended, Smyth," he reflected. "If they come back snooping around we want to know about it."

The mechanic agreed, observing he would be quite comfortable bedding down in the cabin. Leaving him in charge of making the aircraft secure in the hangar, Biggles and Algy made their way to the main building in the hope of finding a taxi into the town centre.

There were more formalities before they could reach the street. Algy muttered with impatience at the delay as more uniformed officials scrutinised their passports, but Biggles was more philosophical. When the immigration officer demanded the purpose of his visit, he took the opportunity to ask for recommendations of a decent hotel for delegates to the Trade Fair. It seemed that there were not many in the centre who were prepared to take foreigners, so their choice was restricted to the Wolfinger on the Hauptplatz.

"Seems a rum do to me," opined Algy as they headed for the door. "You'd think hotels would be falling over themselves for the custom."

"The whole place is rum if you ask me," murmured Biggles. "I'm not given to imagining things, but there's a nasty atmosphere of suspicion everywhere we go. I didn't like the way that chap examined our passports and checked our names against a list. I'm glad we've left Smyth in charge of the machine."

Algy nodded as he looked up and down the street in search of a taxi. A large black car drew up and stopped in front of them. Biggles glanced at it, then took Algy by the arm, drawing him back inside the building.

"What's the matter?" asked Algy in surprise as Biggles appeared to be engrossed in choosing some picture postcards from a stand near the entrance.

"I recognised the passenger in that car that just arrived," explained Biggles. "Don't look round!" he hissed as Algy turned. "I don't think he saw us, but if he did, we'll soon know about it."

"Who …" began Algy but as the doors opened and out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of a tall, slim man entering the airport buildings the question died on his lips.

There was no mistaking that aristocratic figure with the monocle and amber cigarette holder. If further identification were needed, the slight limp gave the final proof. "Von Stalhein!" he exclaimed softly. "I might have known that if there was any dirty work to be done that skunk would be ready to do it."

"We don't know that he's involved with what's happening to the professor," argued Biggles as the German strode across the concourse.

"Then what's he doing here?" parried Algy. "I don't suppose he's on holiday from the Wilhelmstrasse."

"It could just be a coincidence," suggested Biggles. "I believe Germany has a lot of nationals in Austria at the moment."

When Algy gave him a sceptical look, Biggles continued. "At any rate, we know he's here, so we shall have to watch our step. I didn't expect this to be easy, but I didn't think we would run into a snag so early."

The object of their covert scrutiny passed through the airport building and walked across to a Lufthansa Junkers airliner parked on the hard standing. From their vantage point behind the racks of postcards Biggles and Algy watched as Erich von Stalhein mounted the steps and entered the cabin. As soon as the German was aboard, the door was slammed shut, the engines growled into life and the aircraft began to move. The comrades made their way to the window to watch their adversary take off.

"Right," declared Biggles as soon as von Stalhein was safely airborne, "let's check into the hotel and see about finding the professor." He turned on his heel and made for the street, followed by his cousin. This time there was no obstacle to their finding a taxi and making the short journey to the centre of the old town.

The streets were animated. Biggles watched expressionless as they drove past slogans extolling the Anschluss. As they turned the corner Algy caught sight of a fracas down a side street where a group of men in uniform were beating up a civilian.

"What's going on down there?" he asked, pointing out the disturbance. Biggles' lips tightened. "More Nazi beastliness, I imagine," he ground out. "The sooner we get the professor and his family to safety the better."

"Can't we do anything?" asked Algy in horror as their taxi swept down the wide boulevard.

"What do you suggest?" inquired Biggles, lighting a cigarette to disguise his frustration. "We've got a job to do. Making ourselves conspicuous by getting involved in a fight with the authorities won't help anybody."

Much as it went against the grain, Algy had to acknowledge the wisdom of his words. "I only hope it wasn't the professor or one of his family," he muttered gloomily.

"So do I," agreed Biggles. "This job is going to be no piece of cake even without things like that going on."

They fell silent, wrapped in their own sombre thoughts, until the taxi drew up in the spacious Hauptplatz.

The comrades got out and looked at their hotel. The Wolfinger turned out to be a 500 year old building, built on five storeys, on the main square itself. A porter came out of the main entrance and picked up their luggage.

"Herr Bigglesworth and Herr Lacey?" he queried.

Taken aback, Biggles nodded his acknowledgement. "How did you know who we were?" he queried.

"We were informed by the immigration department at the airport," came the response. "How long will you be staying?"

"We are here for the Trade Fair," explained Biggles, "but we are hoping to stay on for a few days afterwards to enjoy a holiday in your lovely old town. It all depends on how well our business goes."

"_Natürlich_," acknowledged the porter as he led them into the foyer where they booked two rooms and had to surrender their passports.

Biggles and Algy exchanged suspicious glances as their travel documents were placed in the safe. Their misgivings were not eased when they were given a sheaf of forms to fill in as well as the register to sign.

"Ah, where would we be without forms?" murmured Algy as he completed the paperwork. "The curse of bureaucracy everywhere. I bet nobody even bothers to look at them when they are sent in."

The porter looked shocked at the suggestion. "On the contrary, _mein Herr_," he hastened to reassure the visitor. "_Hauptman_ von Stalhein is most assiduous in checking all our registration forms."

"_Hauptman_ von Stalhein?" queried Algy with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

"He is our Gauleiter. He has taken over since the Anschluss. Now we shall see improvement; he is very efficient," commented the porter proudly as he put the sheaf of forms in a folder.

"I'll bet he is," breathed Algy sotto voce as the porter took their keys from the rack and invited them to follow him.

"Phew, that was a stroke of luck!" exclaimed Algy when, having unpacked their kit, they sat together in Biggles' bedroom to go over the events of the day so far.

"I don't call that good luck," grumbled Biggles. "Of all the places von Stalhein could be in charge of, it's sheer bad luck that it happens to be Linz. So far all we've done is alert the authorities to our presence here. At this rate, we'll be arrested before we can even make contact with the professor," he added gloomily.

"Well we've got a bit of a breathing space," Algy pointed out optimistically. "We saw von Stalhein fly off. That means he won't get our papers for a while."

"Yes, but the question is, for how long?" complained Biggles. "We can't reckon on much grace. He could be back within hours and as soon as he sees our names on the hotel register he'll be round here before you can say "secret police"."

As he made his gloomy prophesy, he glanced out of the window. Algy saw him stiffen.

"In fact, this could be him now!"

Algy looked down. The large black car they had seen at the airport was just drawing up in front of the hotel.


	5. The past catches up

**Chapter 5**

**The Past Catches Up**

Ginger left Cramlington behind him and raced northward. The coffee had done its job and he felt refreshed and alert.

Once he had cleared Newcastle heading for Morpeth the landscape began to look more familiar. The sight of the small mining communities brought his earliest memories closer and he was forced to face up at last to what he was going to meet when he went back to his own village. His heart heavy, he turned off the main road north, with Walkworth to his right. Soon he saw the familiar twin towers of the pit winding gear standing out against the sky in stark relief. It was not far now; before he reached the coast he would have arrived at his destination. As so often in his childhood, a sea fret was rolling in across the land, shrouding the scenery in a ghostly veil. It seemed somehow appropriate for such a melancholy journey.

Ginger followed the twists and turns of the narrow road automatically. It had been a long time since he had last made this journey and never before at the wheel, but it did not seem to matter. At last he turned into the High Street and was surprised that it seemed so relatively unchanged. The sweet shop where so often he had stood on tiptoe gazing at the delights on display, knowing that they were beyond his reach in every sense, still seemed to have the same colourful array of confectionary in the window, a veritable Aladdin's cave for a hungry child. He took the second turning on the right and pulled up outside the familiar front door. Immediately the Bentley became a magnet for all the boys in the street. Before Ginger could get out the car was surrounded by admiring youths, jostling and pushing to get close to the gleaming machine. A woman emerged from the house next door and berated the rabble soundly. They hung back abashed but still curious.

Ginger got out of the car and looked for a likely lad to protect the car from the crowd now pressing forward again and forming a cordon around the vehicle.

One of the faces looked familiar; a small undernourished lad of about fourteen with very dark hair and eyebrows that met in the middle. Ginger beckoned him over. "Make sure nobody damages it," he instructed solemnly, indicating Biggles' gleaming machine. "Here's a half a crown. There'll be another one for you if it's still safe when I get back."

"Cor!" exclaimed the ragamuffin. He seemed to swell with pride. "Yes sir!" he exclaimed happily. "You can rely on me!"

Ginger smiled. "I'm sure I can, Geordie. That's why I chose you."

Leaving the boy looking astonished, Ginger mounted the steps and rapped on the door. The woman who had shooed the crowd away reappeared on her doorstep.

"I'm afraid you're too late, sir," she informed him regretfully. "There's nobody living there at the moment. You see, Old Hebblethwaite died a couple of days ago."

Ginger looked at her. "Yes, I know, Mrs Lamb," he replied. "You sent me a telegram."

The woman stared at him in amazement for a few moments, her mouth open. "Ee lad!" she exclaimed when she realised who he was. "I didn't recognise you! Bye, but you've grown!" she added.

Ginger smiled sheepishly. "I was only 15 when I left, you know."

"Come in, come in!" she insisted opening her door wide and stepping back. "Have a cup of tea with us!"

Ginger thanked her and stepped into the familiar parlour. As a child he had often sought refuge from his father's drunken rages in the house next door. Mrs Lamb's maternal instincts had been aroused by the motherless child. A motherly soul with a large family already she had taken pity on him and welcomed him to her brood. What was one more mouth among ten, she had often said as he had shared their bread and dripping in front of the range.

"Why, Ernie," she announced to her husband. "Look who's here – Old Hebblethwaite's lad, up from London for the funeral!"

Mr Lamb peered at Ginger as though he thought it was a joke. "Yon's not young Hebblethwaite," he insisted. "He's too clean and well dressed!"

"Hush!" exclaimed his wife as she ushered Ginger into their front room. He blushed as his erstwhile neighbour dusted off an armchair for him and brought out the best china. "I'm still the same person, you know," he reassured her. "Even if my backside's no longer hanging out of my trousers," he added with a grin.

"Nay, canny lad," she contradicted him. "You're a gentleman now. Anybody can see that," she asserted as she served his tea.

Ginger enquired after the Lamb family to find that the girls were married and the boys were working at the pit. The youngest boy had been killed in an accident with a truck when he was stone picking on the surface. He had just turned 14. Ginger reflected that if he had not broken away when he did, he would have been down the mine, too. He shuddered inwardly at his lucky escape.

In response to Mrs Lamb's questioning about where he would stay, he declared his intention of finding an hotel. Although he did not admit to it, the thought of passing the night under the same roof as his father's corpse filled him with horror. Sufficient unto the day the evil thereof, he told himself.

Having finalised the funeral details with his kindly neighbour, Ginger took his leave. Geordie was still standing guard over the gleaming Bentley. As promised, Ginger gave him another half crown because the machine was untouched. Eyes round as saucers, Geordie Stephenson stared at his booty and clutched it fiercely in his palm. "Get in," ordered Ginger. "I'll give you a lift home."

"You divven't kna' my hame," Geordie accused him.

"I know your name, don't I?" Ginger pointed out.

The lad thought for a minute. "Whey aye," he admitted grudgingly. "But it could have bin a lucky guess," he added defiantly. "There's plenty of us called Geordie in these parts."

"That's true," acknowledged Ginger solemnly. "But not many of them that live at 17 Collier Street."

The lad's jaw dropped open and he stared at Ginger curiously. "Do you want a ride or not?" asked Ginger as he opened the door and slid behind the wheel.

Quick as a flash, Geordie was in the passenger seat beside him, to the envy of the other lads. As they drove the short distance to Collier Street, Ginger was amused to see Geordie staring at him intently, working out the puzzle of his identity. As they drew up outside the terrace and Geordie jumped out, his mother appeared and berated him soundly for getting into a stranger's car as she glared at Ginger suspiciously.

Geordie laughed. "Nay Ma, he's no stranger. He used to live in Church Road," he gloated as he skipped into the house, clutching his half crowns.

"I've come back to bury my father, Mrs Stephenson," explained Ginger, raising his hat politely. "My name's Hebblethwaite."

If he had announced he was King George the surprise could not have been greater. Clearly Geordie's mother had not been able to discern the ragged dirty child in the smart, red-haired young man behind the wheel of the gleaming Bentley.

Muttering her condolences she tried to cover her confusion. "It'll be a good turn out at the chapel tomorrow," she assured him. "He had his faults, did your Da', but he had a lot of sorrow, and all."

Ginger nodded, silently acknowledging that perhaps his father's greatest sorrow had resulted from the birth of his only son. His mother had never really recovered her health after his birth and her death some five years later had left her husband inconsolable. No wonder his father had turned to drink, reflected Ginger, the black moods of depression exacerbated by the unremitting drudgery and danger of work underground.

It was with that sombre reflection that Ginger retraced his journey back to Morpeth and booked a room at the Queen's Head on Bridge Street. As he undressed and got ready for bed, he tried to concentrate on more current events. His thoughts were turning to how Biggles and Algy were faring in far off Linz when he drifted off to sleep.


	6. A close run thing

**Chapter 6**

**A Close Run Thing**

In the bedroom of their hotel in Linz, Algy and Biggles stared out of the window in consternation. The door of the limousine opened and out stepped a small portly man with an over-weaning sense of his own self importance judging by the way he strutted up to the hotel carrying a portfolio under his arm.

Algy could have laughed with relief. "Thank goodness for that!" he exclaimed. "If that's Erich's deputy, I shouldn't think they work very well together."

"You could be right," acknowledged Biggles. "But we can't bank on it. It does seem to have given us a short breathing space, though. I'd like to take advantage of it and visit the professor's last known address that Raymond gave us, but it's getting very late. I don't know if there's a curfew, but we could well draw attention to ourselves if we're on the streets late at night. Perhaps we'd better slip down and find out."

Algy nodded and they made their way down to the foyer. The pompous little man was just leaving. They waited as the proprietor obsequiously bowed him out.

To Biggles' enquiry the elderly receptionist replied that it was unwise to roam the streets at night as all sorts of undesirables were about. The police patrols did their best, but – he shrugged his shoulders as if to suggest that the forces of law and order were losing the battle.

"That's settled then, " agreed Biggles as they were about to turn in for the night. "First thing tomorrow, we'll contact the Professor."

Algy nodded and consulted the map Biggles had picked up at the airport. "It isn't far," he commented. The Fabrikstrasse runs alongside the river. We'll be best off setting off early tomorrow."

"We might as well walk," announced Biggles the following day when they had finished breakfast. "It will help us get our bearings and the less people who know where we're going, the better."

Biggles deposited the keys at the reception desk. "Where are you going, gentlemen?" inquired the young man behind the counter.

If Biggles was annoyed by the man's intrusive question, he hid it. "We thought we'd have a look round the old town," he commented smoothly. "We've never been to Linz before. Have you any recommendations of things to see?"

The receptionist mentioned some monuments which Biggles recognised from the brochure he had perused at the airport and offered to call them a taxi.

Biggles declined on the grounds that it was possible to enjoy the sights better on foot. "The English are very fond of walking," he added. "It's good exercise."

"The city can be very dangerous for foreigners," warned the receptionist meaningfully.

Biggles met his eyes. "I'll bear that in mind, thank you," he murmured coolly and joined Algy by the door.

As they went out, Algy glanced back. The receptionist was watching them closely with a telephone handset to his ear.

"This place gives me the creeps," he told Biggles as they emerged onto the Hauptplatz. "Everybody seems to be watching everybody else. The sooner we've found the professor and got him and his family safely to England the happier I shall be!"

Biggles acknowledged his cousin's comment with a nod and set off at a brisk pace.

"What's the hurry?" puffed Algy as Biggles strode down the Kaisergasse. "I know I said I wanted to get home quickly, but there's no need to sprint!"

"No hurry at all," observed Biggles, glancing in the window of a café. "In fact, I think we'll stop and have a drink."

He pulled up a chair and sat at one of the tables outside the bar. Algy looked at him curiously but said nothing as the waiter came across to take their order. When they were alone again with two steins of beer in front of them, Algy gave in to his curiosity.

"What made you stop here?" he wanted to know.

Biggles lit a cigarette and offered his case to Algy in such a way that his cousin had to turn to reach it. "See the man in the green coat?" asked Biggles, indicating the direction with his eyes.

Algy's eyes swivelled in the same direction. "Yes," he breathed, "he looks a nasty piece of work."

"He picked up our tail just after we left the hotel. I wasn't sure at first, but he virtually had to run to keep up with us."

Algy swore softly under his breath. "That's torn it," he muttered. "If we're followed everywhere we go, we'll never dare contact the professor."

"He's alone as far as I can tell," observed Biggles. "If we split up, he can only follow one of us. You stay here and finish your drink. I'll go inside and try to find a back way out. If I can give him the slip, I'll make for the professor's address. I'll meet you back at the hotel."

So saying, Biggles got up, remarking loudly that he hoped they stocked his favourite brand of cigarettes at the bar as he was nearly out. The man in the green coat watched as he went inside, glancing rapidly from Algy to Biggles' retreating back. Algy could almost read the man's thoughts as he hesitated what to do.

Smiling inwardly, Algy took a leisurely sip from his drink and consulted the tourist map. When Biggles did not reappear after a few minutes, the man at the adjoining table got up and entered the bar. Algy seized his chance and left. He swiftly threw some coins on the table and walked briskly round the corner of the building before their tail could emerge. He almost regretted not being able to see the expression on the man's face when he realised he had been suckered.

Finding himself on the Elisabethstrasse, Algy hesitated. Biggles had said they would meet back at the hotel, but he had not specifically said that Algy should go directly there. The Fabrikstrasse was not far away, mused Algy, remembering the tourist map he had been perusing at the café. Making up his mind, he turned left and followed the street to its end. He half expected to see Biggles ahead of him, but there were only a few passers-by on the street. Glancing behind occasionally in case he was being followed again, Algy set off briskly towards the river. Realising that his haste was inconsistent with his stated objective of enjoying the sights, he slowed down and took a moment to browse in the window of a bric-a-brac shop. Inside a man in a brown uniform, wearing a swastika armband, appeared to be berating the proprietor. As Algy watched, the Nazi snatched up a figurine and headed for the door. The owner made as if to follow, then shrugged his shoulders and sank down behind his counter with his head in his hands.

Algy made up his mind in an instant. As the would-be thief reached the door, Algy entered the shop. Since two people cannot occupy the same space at the same time, the inevitable happened and they collided. Algy, who was braced for the impact, kept his feet, but the brownshirt, a weedy individual with a small black moustache, reeled back into the shop, letting go of the figurine which Algy caught deftly and in a smooth movement handed back to the proprietor, murmuring quietly, "_das ist Ihre, nicht wahr_?".

Stunned, the old man nodded and hastily put the figurine out of sight under the counter as Algy turned his attention to the man in uniform and began to apologise profusely in English.

"So clumsy of me!" he gushed. "I do hope you're not hurt. Do allow me to buy you a drink!" he insisted, helping the man to his feet, then taking his arm and hustling him out of the shop into a nearby café.

When the Nazi recovered his breath he began to swear at Algy in German. Algy assumed a hurt expression. "There's no harm done," he protested. "It was an accident. Could have happened to anyone. I saw a rather nice carved picture frame and I was in such a hurry to look at it, I hadn't realised you were coming out. Are you sure you wouldn't like a drink?"

The Nazi glared at him. If looks were lethal, Algy thought, he would have been struck dead on the spot. After another mouthful of abuse the Austrian turned on his heel and stalked away. He hesitated outside the shop for a second and Algy wondered if he was going to chance his arm a second time, but with a venomous look at the Englishman outside the café he quickened his step and strode on down the street.

Algy would have resumed his journey to Fabrikstrasse, but as he passed the shop, the proprietor came out. He glanced nervously up and down the street before beckoning Algy inside.

Algy entered the shop, thinking perhaps he ought to buy the carved picture frame he'd mentioned after all. At least it would add verisimilitude to his story if there were any repercussions. Not that that would help him in that case, he reflected.

The old man clasped Algy's hand and uttered guttural thanks in heavily accented English. "There is no one to stand up for us in Austria," he stated sadly. "It is like a disease. The Nazis and their friends take what they like – soon we Jews will have nothing at all."

Algy felt embarrassed by the old man's effusive thanks. "I can't bear to see people getting away with breaking the law," he muttered.

"The law!" exclaimed the old Jew. "Their law is that they can take our property and we cannot complain."

A thought struck Algy that perhaps, being of the same faith, the shop owner might know the professor and where he might be found. He mentioned his quest and was not disappointed.

"The Herr Professor used to attend synagogue regularly until that became a crime," the old man told him. "He has been forced to move from his apartment in the Fabrikstrasse and take another, smaller one on the Krankenhausstrasse."

"Is that far?" queried Algy, not recognising the name.

It turned out to be quite near, off the Gruberstrasse. Algy thanked the man and turned to go, but the old Jew held on to his arm.

"Remember, _mein Herr_," he assured Algy hoarsely. "If I can be of any help to you, come to the shop and ask for Joseph."

Algy thanked him and set off towards Gruberstrasse, feeling quite pleased with himself and thinking of Biggles searching in the wrong direction.


	7. Biggles learns something

**Chapter 7**

**Biggles Learns Something**

Biggles himself was not feeling anything like as cheery as his cousin. When he had left Algy in front of the café he had been fortunate enough to find a back entrance beside the lavatories which led onto Elisabethstrasse. It was the work of a moment to make sure no one was observing him as he slipped through and walked smartly away. Thinking it best not to make directly for his objective, he took a detour down Museumstrasse before rejoining the main road further along. Realising he was walking more briskly than might be expected of a sight-seeing tourist, he tried to slow his pace, aware that the other passers-by appeared to be in no hurry. Despite the urgency of his mission, he did not wish to draw attention to himself by unseemly haste.

Eventually he reached the T junction at the end of the road. The Fabrikstrasse ran parallel with the Danube, separated from the river by the Untere Donaulände and a park. Trying to look as though he was admiring the architecture, Biggles made his way down the ranks of apartment blocks, searching for the number he had been given. Eventually he found it and halted at the foot of the steps.

Glancing round to see that he was unobserved, he mounted the staircase. He rang the doorbell of the Professor's flat and waited. No one came. Biggles pressed the bell again, letting it peal for longer this time. Still no response. Stifling an imprecation at this setback, Biggles was about to retrace his steps when a young woman came up the staircase behind him. Biggles greeted her in German and enquired after the Professor. She gave him an odd look and commented he must be a stranger. Biggles admitted he was.

That would explain it, she observed, groping in her bag for her door key. Otherwise he would have known that Jews were no longer allowed to live next to normal people.

Biggles bit back an exclamation of dismay and asked if she knew where they had all gone to.

The woman shrugged. "As long as they are nowhere near us," she stated, "I don't care."

Biggles fumed inwardly. "It would be as well to know which areas one should avoid," he remarked studiedly.

"_Ach_, _nat­ürlich_," she agreed, nodding sagely. "One cannot be too careful I had heard that there were special homes for them in Krankenhausstrasse," she added.

"I hope that is a long way from here," suggested Biggles.

The woman pulled a face. "Not far enough. I expect the stench can still reach us when the wind is in the wrong direction."

Biggles stifled the urge to give her a piece of his mind. "So close?" he queried.

"Only five or six streets away," the woman told him. "Beyond Weisswolfenstrasse." She put the key in the lock and was about to enter the flat that formerly belonged to the Professor.

"I hope you have had the flat fumigated," remarked Biggles as he turned to leave. "You never know what you might catch from the previous occupant."

The woman turned white with horror as Biggles strode grimly away. He hoped he had spoiled any enjoyment she might have got from her appropriation of the Professor's flat. He had no doubt she would be having the place thoroughly cleaned and disinfected as soon as possible. 'In the meantime,' he thought savagely, 'I hope she has nightmares about it.'

He was still fuming as he retraced his journey. If he had not been so angry, he might not have run into the man to whom they had given the slip at the café. Biggles recognised him just too late to avoid him without giving the game away. Cursing inwardly, he knew he must abandon his visit to the Krankenhausstrasse. The man must have been quartering the streets around the café, hoping to pick up their trail again, Biggles realised. Because he had gone the most direct route to his next destination, he had done the man's job for him.

Bitterly reproaching himself for his carelessness in having forgotten about their tail, Biggles headed for the Museum, determined that his shadow would have a day of culture he would not forget in a hurry.

From the museum, which Biggles explored thoroughly, he led his unwelcome companion to the art gallery. He was unimpressed by the preponderance of "correct" themes, which he was dismayed to find creeping into the gallery's exhibits. He had already noticed the mushrooming of posters in the streets and on public buildings extolling the virtues of the Anschluss and exhorting people to vote yes in the plebiscite. This and the reaction of the woman outside the Professor's flat heightened his sense of urgency to complete his mission. He fretted at the delay, but he dare not risk exposing his hand by going near the Professor while he was being followed. After checking out every floor of the art gallery, he felt he had made his point. It was time for him to go back to his hotel and meet up with Algy again, after which they could try to slip out unencumbered by the Austrian watchdog to continue their quest.

Biggles descended the staircase and made for the exit. As he emerged into the street, he caught a glimpse of his minder in the reflection of the glass door. The man looked tired, Biggles thought with satisfaction as he set off back to the Wolfinger.

When he turned into the lobby of the hotel, Biggles half expected Algy to be sitting in the lobby waiting for him, but there was no sign of his cousin. Biggles asked for his key and noticed with some misgivings that the key to Algy's room was still hanging on its peg on the board behind the desk. He glanced at his watch, experiencing the first stirrings of anxiety that his cousin had not got back before him. The receptionist's warning came unbidden to his mind and he began to regret his decision to split up the party. Biggles hesitated, debating whether to try again to contact the Professor or to wait for Algy and compare notes. He decided to have a drink in the hotel café and make another attempt as soon as Algy got back, thinking that his comrade would not be long. When another hour had passed and there was still no sign of Algy, Biggles began to seriously worry that something unpleasant had happened to delay him.


	8. What happened to Algy

**Chapter 8**

**What Happened To Algy**

When Algy left Elisabethstrasse on his way to Krankenhausstrasse, he was humming a merry tune, congratulating himself on having tracked the professor down so easily and anticipating that their mission would soon be over. The melody died on his lips, however, as he turned the corner of the street with his destination in sight. He had expected that contacting the professor would be a simple matter of knocking on the door even if making arrangements to smuggle the family out of the country would be more problematical. The moment he rounded the corner, it was clear at a glance that he had to revise his plans.

A small crowd had gathered outside one of the houses. For a moment, Algy thought it was the address he had been given for the professor, but as he neared the throng he realised it was a few doors away. As he watched, the crowd grew, augmented by passers-by attracted by the noise. It was immediately apparent that the mood of the people milling around and surging up to the building was ugly. As Algy watched, a stone was thrown and he heard glass shatter as the missile stuck a window. "_Jude_, _Jude_," came the chant, at first quietly, spoken by just a few, then growing louder as more and more took up the refrain, until soon the noise seemed to fill the narrow street. Algy felt his blood run cold; there was something primitive and brutal about the monotonous sound.

He slowed his step, not wanting to get involved. He intended to watch events unfold and let the crowd disperse before he tried to contact the professor, but events overtook him. Before he could turn round and seek a more peaceful spot where he could await his opportunity, he found himself being pushed forward by a group of youths in the uniform of the Hitler Jugend who had entered the street behind him, They spread across the thoroughfare, shoulder to shoulder, blocking any chance of retreat. Rather than call attention to himself by trying to battle against the surge, Algy allowed himself to be driven forward.

He felt a frisson of fear as he was surrounded by baying humanity, unable to extricate himself. The chanting grew louder and more insistent, the mob taking on a life of its own and feeding on its own frenzy. Again came the tinkle of broken glass as another window was shattered by a stone. The mob surged up the steps and pounded on the door. The flimsy wood splintered and gave way as the front ranks surged against it. With a howl of triumph, the leaders of the rabble disappeared into the hallway. Those who could not fit into the small space, packed the area outside and kept up the repetitive chant. Algy took advantage of the brief lull to edge his way towards the outside of the crowd.

He had almost reached a free space when the leaders emerged on the top of the steps and announced that the house was empty. A bellow of rage broke from the serried lips of the mob, thwarted of their victims.

"_Brennt_, _brennt_!" called out a voice from the middle of the crowd and others swiftly took up the refrain. Suddenly a bottle with a flaming wick arced through the air to smash against the wall, scattering its liquid fire along the pavement. One of the mob who was standing too close was spattered with petrol and his clothes set alight. Screaming he tried to run away, spreading flame as he pushed against his neighbours. At once, the mob began to panic. Algy realised immediately that he had to get clear before he was trampled under foot as those in front tried to fall back while those behind continued to move forward. Frantically, he elbowed his way through the outer edges of the throng until he was able to get clear and leap over the railings of an apartment block on the opposite side of the street. The drop was farther than he had expected and the jolt as he landed in the well of the basement knocked some of the breath out of him. He staggered and almost fell, lurching against a wooden door that was tucked beneath the steps. It swung open beneath his weight and deposited him in a narrow corridor. Algy regained his balance and rested his back against the wall, breathing deeply at the narrowness of his escape, relieved that he had not sprained an ankle when he jumped. Above the pounding of his heart he could hear screams and yells overhead as the crowd was jostled and squeezed in the narrow space. He felt no pity for them, he reflected. They had brought any suffering on themselves and fully deserved their fate.

A small cry attracted his attention to the dark region at the end of the corridor. Peering into the gloom, Algy could just make out a little figure, huddled in a black shawl. "_Wer ist da_?" he asked curiously and heard the person gasp. He moved closer and realised it was a young woman. She looked terrified and Algy hastened to allay her fears. As his eyes became accustomed to the lack of light, he perceived that she was in her early twenties. A pale, oval face with dark eyes like pools of ink stared back at him as he tried to reassure her.

"You are not with them?" she asked querulously, indicating the open door, through which the sounds of the street could still be heard, with a jerky movement of her head. She spoke in German, but with an accent.

Algy explained what had happened. "I was coming to visit someone," he added. "Someone who lives farther along the street."

"It is dangerous to come here," she told him, shivering, "unless you belong to the Party."

"The Party?" queried Algy. "Which Party?"

Her voice dropped to a whisper. "The National Socialist Party," she breathed.

"No," Algy assured her vehemently. "I am not with them."

"I was on my way home and I saw them outside the house," she admitted. "I knew they would make trouble, so I hid in here. It is not safe to be on the streets when the Party members are looking for someone to vent their rage on."

"So I've noticed," murmured Algy dryly. "Was that your house they were trying to set on fire?"

She shook her head. "I live a few doors down, but it would not make any difference. Jacob's house or ours, it is all the same." She sighed, resigned to the situation. "My father would like to get us out, but I do not see how we can."

"What does your father do?" asked Algy idly, pondering his next move. The noises from the street had lessened and he was beginning to wonder if it was safe to emerge.

"He is an engineer," the girl answered. "He is being forced to work for them, to design aero engines."

Algy was staggered. "Is your father Professor Meier?" he asked incredulously, scarcely able to believe his luck.

If Algy was surprised, the girl was astounded. "You know him?" she exclaimed, her voice cracking with disbelief.

Algy shook his head. "I only know of him," he clarified, "but I've been sent from London to get him and his family out."

For a moment the girl said nothing, then her shoulders shook and Algy realised she was sobbing. "Cheer up," he encouraged her, patting her gently on the shoulder and offering his handkerchief. "I know it's a bit of a shock, but we've got an aeroplane waiting at the airfield. Now we've met up, all we have to do is get you all together and take you there. Then we can fly you to England."

"You don't understand," she managed to get out through her tears as she dabbed her eyes. "You have arrived too late. They took my father away this morning."


	9. Ginger lays a ghost

**Chapter 9**

**Ginger Lays A Ghost**

Ginger yawned, stretched and rubbed his eyes. For a moment, he lay on his back staring at the unfamiliar ceiling and wondered where he was. He looked around, noticing his clothes laid out neatly on the chair near the wash stand and the suitcase on the floor beside it. Then, with a rush, memory returned and he sighed. There came a repetition of the noise which had awakened him. Someone was tapping on the door.

"Who is it?" he enquired sleepily.

"Room service, Mr Hebblethwaite," came the reply. "You ordered an early morning cup of tea with your wake-up call."

Ginger lay back against the pillows and called to the hotel waiter to come in. There was the sound of a passkey being turned in the lock before a white jacketed steward entered bearing a tray. Ginger watched as the man placed the tray carefully on a stand and went across to open the curtains. The swish of the heavy material almost drowned out the announcement that it was raining heavily. The light which flooded the room had that dull leaden quality which he associated with wet days in his childhood. A dreary start to an unpleasant day, he thought as the waiter left. Ginger sipped his tea slowly, contemplating the ordeal he had to face.

He reached over and took his watch from the bedside table to check the time. Realising he was unable to put things off any longer, he drained his cup, swung his legs out of bed and donned his dressing gown. When he returned from the bathroom, he contemplated the scrubbed and shining face sombrely reflected in the mirror above the wash basin. The contrast with the dark material of his suit made his face stand out paler even than usual. It seemed to him that the eyes of a 15 year old boy were staring out of a face that had aged very little in years, but considerably in experience. No wonder his former neighbours had been shocked and not recognised him immediately, he reflected. He was not looking forward to the simple service in the Chapel before the interment in the small cemetery behind it, but the sooner it was over, the sooner he could rejoin Biggles, he reassured himself as he dressed carefully and brushed his hair.

Breakfast was a silent and dreary meal. There were not many guests at that time of year and the majority of them were not early risers, so Ginger had the dining room to himself. He demolished a plate of bacon and eggs in gloomy silence, thinking ruefully that Mrs Symes was a much better cook than whoever ran the hotel kitchen and running through the arrangements for the funeral in his mind. Mrs Lamb had undertaken to organise a funeral tea, for which he was grateful. He had fond memories of sitting in front of her range, sharing whatever was on the table for her brood. She had been more of a mother to him than his own, he thought. He tried to remember what his real mother had been like, but he had been so young when she died he had only the vaguest recollection. He remembered the scent of her more than her face, he discovered. A scent of lily of the valley, he recalled with amazement, for he had not thought of that for many years. His father had discouraged mention of his mother and had refused to allow any photographs of her on show, yet Ginger knew he kept one in the top drawer of his bedside table. He had seen it once and paid for it with a beating. A faded sepia print of a pretty young woman in a two piece suit and wide brimmed hat, seated on a sofa holding a small dog. Idly he wondered what had happened to the picture now and concluded he would ask Mrs Lamb after the service.

Lingering over a hot cup of coffee, he reached for a newspaper, thinking he ought to keep abreast of events and that perhaps there would be news of Austria which could be useful when he met Biggles and Algy. The screaming banner headline caught his attention:

**Czechoslovakia – crisis looms**

He picked up the paper and saw that France had convened a conference to discuss the Anschluss, attempting to allay Czechoslovak fears over the new Nazi state on their border, but that Italy had declined to take part. For the most part, Ginger thought the tone of the reporting was conciliatory and neutral. On another page he noted that the German Chancellor, Adolf Hitler, had paid a brief visit to Linz on his way to Vienna. According to the reports, he had been well received with streets full of cheering crowds and the man had made much of the city being his home town. As he read the articles, Ginger felt a sense of foreboding which disquieted him. He was not normally given to depression and put it down to his highly strung state due to the effect the strain of the impending service was having on his usually optimistic nature. His longing for the ceremony to be over and his journey to rejoin Biggles under way intensified.

He folded the newspaper abruptly and put it back in the rack. With a new sense of purpose, he wasted no more time getting started on the last stage of his mission. The rain which greeted him as he made his way out of the hotel after paying his bill was almost horizontal, whipped by a strong wind off the sea. He was about to get in the Bentley when he realised there was one more thing he needed to do before he could start the final leg. Turning abruptly on his heel, he returned to the hotel and asked the receptionist if there was a florist nearby.

She looked at him and smiled warmly. Ginger wondered what she was thinking. "Certainly, sir," she replied and gave him directions.

Ginger thanked her and made his way back out onto the street. It was only a short walk but he was wet through before he reached his destination. Ruefully, he thought he should have driven.

It was the work of a moment to choose a simple bouquet as a floral tribute. As he paid for the flowers, Ginger smiled wryly. His father would have been furious, he thought. Wasting all that money on blooms, but then given the choice of flowers, perhaps not. It would have been more appropriate to have bought a crate of brown ale to put on the coffin, he mused, but he doubted his neighbours would have appreciated the gesture, even if his father would have.

The rain had abated slightly as he headed for the car, but the wind was as strong as ever. There would be no sea fret today to shroud the land, he told himself grimly as he retraced his route to his home village. The bleak landscape was softened and blurred by the streaks of rain on the windscreen and the monotonous slap of the wipers urged him on.

Mrs Lamb must have been waiting for him because her door was thrown open as soon as he drew up.

"Come in, hinny," she beckoned from her doorstep as Ginger alighted into the muddy street. There were no lads playing today, he noticed as he hurried across to take shelter from the downpour.

There were four stalwart miners waiting in her parlour. Ginger recognised them vaguely as drinking companions of his father. Mrs Lamb prefaced her introductions with "you remember …" but he didn't in truth. They had been his father's companions, not his. Even their sons had shunned him, thinking his ideas strange and above his station. He was stuck by how far distant in time and place was his childhood and how much he had changed since he had met Biggles. He felt alien and ill at ease. The men, too, shuffled uneasily, looking constrained in their Sunday best. Tight collars throttled them with unaccustomed stiffness at their throat as they greeted Ginger embarrassedly. He acknowledged them awkwardly, knowing that they would bear his father on his final journey. That had always been the custom, he remembered. The neighbours were the ones who made sure the deceased left his home by the front door, feet first, not the members of the family. His position would be as chief mourner, not pallbearer. In a way it was a relief.

He glanced at his watch. Mrs Lamb saw the movement and put her hand on his shoulder consolingly. "Whey aye, canny lad," she said gently. "It's time."

The miners took their cue from her. They picked up their flat caps and put them on ready to venture out into the storm. Ginger hung back and let them precede him. The solemn procession made the short journey to the house next door and into the family parlour where the coffin lay resting between two chairs. Ginger took a deep breath. He had refused the offer of a last look at his father so the lid was firmly screwed down. He laid the bouquet of flowers on the polished wood and silently the four men formed up beside the box. With one effortless movement they hoisted the coffin onto their shoulders, not even disturbing the posy of hothouse lily of the valley that rested on the top.

Mrs Lamb opened the door and the procession set off. The rain had ceased but the street still ran with water and puddles reflected the dull daylight that struggled to pierce the thick layer of cloud. Instinctively, Ginger glanced at the sky, thinking he was glad he did not have to fly. He hoped the weather would have eased by the time he had to make his way to Austria.

Mrs Lamb misunderstood the look. "Whey aye, it's a dreich day," she commented, "but at least we won't get drownded."

Ginger nodded, aware of how differently he saw things now. Perhaps he always had, he thought, and that was why he had so wanted to get away.

Despite the inclement weather, Ginger was surprised how many people came out of their houses to pay their respects to the cortège. Even those who did not join the procession, closed their blinds or curtains as it passed by. By the time they had traversed the quarter mile or so to the chapel, there was quite a large gathering behind him. As they passed through the main doors and proceeded along one of the aisles, Ginger remembered incongruously that the last time he had been in the building he had been ejected for continuing to sing after the hymn had ended. He must have been about six at the time, he recalled, sent to chapel and Sunday school with some of the neighbours' children to get him out of his father's way. He wondered idly if any of the congregation at the time were following him now and if they were, whether they remembered him and his errant behaviour.

They filed into the pews and alternately sat in silence or stood and sang doleful hymns while the service proceeded. The pastor gave an address which was personal and at times humorous. Ginger thought he must have done his research well, for as far as he knew, his father had not set foot inside the chapel since his mother's funeral. Her husband had held a grudge ever since, brooded Ginger, because she was laid to rest in a Non-Conformist cemetery, refused a requiem mass through marrying a Protestant. His old man had never got over that. Now at last he was set to rejoin her and they would never be parted again.

Struggling with his painful memories, Ginger thought the service would never end, but at last the pallbearers hoisted their burden for the last time and he followed the coffin out to the cemetery and the plot that he remembered so well. He used to escape and sit there sometimes when his father's rages were at their worst. He had not been back since he said farewell before taking the momentous decision to head south for London. As his father's coffin was lowered into the yawning grave and he stepped forward to throw a clod of earth onto it, he realised that he would never return. The soil that pattered down onto the coffin buried his last links with the North-East.

As if in tune with this melancholy acknowledgement of finality, the rain started to fall once more, encouraging the mourners to head back to Church Street and Mrs Lamb's tea. When the last of them had finished their fruit cake, drained their cups, expressed their condolences and departed, Ginger thanked his neighbour for all she had done. "Not just now," he said awkwardly, "but all my life."

"Bah, canny lad," she exclaimed, gathering him to her as she had done when he was a child. "What are neighbours for?"

Ginger felt comforted, just as he always had. She brushed aside his efforts to contribute to the cost of the meal with the same question, although he knew they had little coming in. Before he left, he asked if she knew about the photograph his father had kept by his bedside.

She looked at him compassionately. "Yer Da took her with him to his grave, canny lad," she told him. "He really loved yer Ma, you know. In death they were not divided."

Ginger said nothing, so she continued. "Ye're a bit like her, you know – not yer colouring, but yer face and some of yer ways. I often think that was why old Hebblethwaite was so hard on ye. Ye reminded him too much of what he'd lost."

Ginger nodded, unable to speak. She gave him a hug and suggested he had best be off. "Ye've a new life doon sooth," she reminded him. "Ye divven't belong here now."

Ginger drew a deep breath and assured her huskily that if ever she needed anything, she had only to get in touch. "I'll never forget my friends," he vowed.

"I kna' that, canny lad," she acknowledged. "Ye've allus bin that way, but ye've a new life, new marrers. Yer place is with them now."

Ginger drew away, breaking the last contact with his old life. "You're right, Mrs Lamb," he conceded as she saw him to the door. "I need to get back to them as soon as I can. I wonder how they're getting on," he murmured. "I don't suppose the job is all plain sailing."


	10. Algy makes plans

**Chapter 10**

**Algy Makes Plans**

To say Algy was stunned by her pronouncement was an understatement. The roller coaster of emotion almost floored him. "Took him away?" he managed to stammer. "Where to?"

"Mauthausen," she sobbed.

Algy looked blank. "Where's that?" he asked, bewildered.

"It's about 15 kilometres from here, towards the East," she explained. "They are building a new camp where people will work on Messerschmitts. They have taken my father there."

"What about your mother?"

"She was at home when I left this morning. I don't know if she's still there now. Attacks by the mob are getting worse. Ever since Herr Hitler came and made a speech there have been more people and more violence. She is not a strong woman. It is so hard on her nerves."

Algy thought swiftly. Making up his mind, he told the girl to stay where she was while he went to their house to find her mother. If he was successful he would bring her to the hiding place and they would all go to the hotel together. The girl's words made him ask: "is there anything I can say that would convince her I can be trusted? I might have difficulty persuading her to come with me otherwise."

She hesitated. "Tell her Becca wants to go to Vienna University to study Law," she said finally. "I haven't told anyone but my mother and father, because after the new laws, the universities have begun to select people on racial grounds and I know I shan't get a place."

Algy looked shocked. "This gets worse and worse," he breathed. "Stay here. If things are as bad as that, you won't be safe on the street."

"But what if you are arrested?" she asked fearfully.

"If I don't come back in an hour," Algy informed her, "go to the Wolfinger Hotel and ask for a man called Bigglesworth. Tell him what's happened and what I'm going to do."

She protested that as a Jewess she was not allowed to go into the hotel.

"Then call him on the telephone," exclaimed Algy impatiently. "If necessary, call yourself Mrs Lacey and let him know what's going on. He'll make arrangements to meet you. Here," he thrust some schillings and pfennigs into her hand. "In case you don't have any change for the 'phone!"

She took the coins hesitantly. Algy swallowed his impatience, realising that the strain under which she was forced to live was sapping her resilience.

"Don't worry," he reassured her softly. "We'll make sure we get you all safely away to England. Remember what I've told you."

As he left the corridor under the stairs, he last saw her huddled on the floor, clutching the coins to her breast as a drowning man clutches at a life raft.

Algy emerged onto the empty street to find the only evidence of the pogrom was shards of broken glass, scorch marks and a litter of uprooted cobble stones. He moved quickly along the thoroughfare, scanning the numbers until he found the one he wanted. Glancing to right and left to make sure he was unobserved, he dashed up the steps and hammered on the door. No one came. He rapped sharply again and thought he heard a gasp.

"Mrs Meier!" he called out urgently. "I'm a friend. Please let me in. I need to talk to you."

He thought he saw a face behind the curtain, but it was swiftly removed.

"Becca told me she wants to go to study Law," he added. "In Vienna – she said you'd know I've come to help if I told you that."

After what seemed an age, the door opened a crack. "Where is Becca?" quavered the woman suspiciously. "You've taken her!" her voice cracked and she seemed about to descend into hysteria.

Algy hastened to reassure her that her daughter was safe and waiting for her. "We can't have this discussion on the doorstep," he urged. "Let me in so we can arrange to get you away."

She looked at him anxiously. Algy stared back, trying to be patient. After what seemed to be an age, she made up her mind about him. Reluctantly she opened the door wider and Algy leapt into the hall. There was something about her air of terror which was catching, he thought.

The woman who faced him had once been beautiful, he realised, but worry and fear had etched deep lines in her features. Her eyes searched his face, suspicious that his appearance was some sort of trick.

Algy hastened to reassure her. When he told her of the plan to take them to England, she blinked and stared at him in disbelief. Her hand clutched at her throat. For a moment he wondered if she was going to faint, but she leaned against the wall for support.

"My husband," she began, but Algy interrupted. "I know. Becca told me. He's been sent to build Messerschmitts in Mauthausen."

"I won't go to England without him," she said fiercely.

"You won't have to, I promise. We'll take him with us, don't worry," Algy told her soothingly. "The main thing for now is to join up with my colleague so we can arrange to get your husband away. In order to do that, first we need to get you and Becca to our hotel."

At the mention of her daughter, the woman's eyes filled with fear. "She went out this morning," she whispered. "I haven't seen her. There was a mob on the street …" she seemed about to break down in hysterics.

"She's fine," Algy hastened to assure her. "She safe. She's waiting for us farther along the street. You will have to abandon everything when you come with us," he informed her regretfully. "We won't have room for any luggage and we'll have to move swiftly."

The woman looked dejectedly around the bare hallway. "We have almost nothing left," she said dispiritedly. "They have taken everything."

"Get your coat then, if you're ready," urged Algy, "and we'll go."

The Professor's wife turned and went slowly up the uncarpeted stairs. It seemed to Algy, waiting impatiently by the front door, to take an age before she reappeared, dressed in a grey coat that had seen better days, with a dark red hat perched at a jaunty angle on her greying hair. She seemed to have conquered her nerves and appeared, if not exactly cheerful, at least less fearful. The prospect of escape his arrival represented had given her hope.

She came across the hall to stand beside him. "I'm ready," she announced in a sad, quiet voice. Algy smiled reassuringly and offered her his arm. She took it hesitantly.

He was about to open the front door when suddenly the calm was shattered by the sound of hammering and a loud demand to open up in the name of the Reich.

Mrs Meier turned deathly pale and shrank back, all her confidence draining away. "It is the _Sicherheits Dienst_," she whispered in terror. "The ones who came for my husband this morning. Now they have come to arrest Becca and me."


	11. Biggles goes to the opera

**Chapter 11**

**Biggles Goes To The Opera**

In the foyer of the Wolfinger Biggles looked at his watch again. Algy had still not appeared and he was now beginning to get seriously concerned about his cousin's absence. He hesitated, mulling over his options. When, after he had smoked several cigarettes, there was still no sign of Algy, Biggles made up his mind. He had come to Austria to do a job. He would have to try to contact the professor and hope that Algy would make his way back to the hotel as soon as he was able.

Biggles stubbed out his last cigarette in the over-flowing ashtray and stood up. As he crossed the foyer, making his way to the entrance, the receptionist called him back.

"A telephone call for you Herr Bigglesworth," the man said, holding out the receiver. "Frau Lacey wishes to speak with you."

Biggles looked at him curiously. "_Frau_ Lacey?" he queried. "Not Herr Lacey?"

"No mein Herr, the caller is a woman. She said she was Frau Lacey."

Intrigued, Biggles took the receiver and cautiously repeated her name, wondering if it was a trap of some kind.

The voice on the end of the telephone sounded young and frightened. "Algy told me to ring you," she announced hesitantly.

Biggles' instincts told him this was no trap, but aware that the conversation might be listened to, he chose his words carefully as he tried to discover the purpose behind the telephone call. Any news of Algy would be welcome. "Thank you, my dear," he murmured gently. "That was kind of you. How is your husband?"

There was a slight sigh of relief in his ear as if the caller had been expecting a challenge. "He has gone to see my mother," the girl told him. "She hasn't been well since we had to move from Fabrikstrasse."

Biggles was instantly alert at the mention of the address. "I see," he breathed. "And your father?" he asked carefully.

There was almost a sob in the voice at the other end of the line. "He has had to go away unexpectedly. To serve the Reich," she informed him.

"I'm sorry to hear he had to leave so suddenly on this important work," announced Biggles. "When did that happen?"

"This morning," came the disconcerting reply.

Biggles drew in a sharp breath. "I am disappointed to have missed him," he commented truthfully.

"We were hoping you would be able to come round to see us tonight," the girl continued, "but unfortunately, that's not possible now."

"No," agreed Biggles. "I wouldn't have been able to in any case," Biggles told her meaningfully. "I have arranged to go to the Theatre tonight. The performance starts at 8."

"Eight o'clock?" the girl repeated. "You don't have much time to get ready and walk to the Promenade. I shall ring off and let you get changed. I hope you enjoy the opera. I believe it is very uplifting."

"Thank you," acknowledged Biggles. "I have to make the most of my free time while I'm here; I expect our work will be finished shortly and we shall have to leave."

The girl's voice was steadier now as she wished him good night. Biggles put the receiver down and went up to his room to consult the map. It took him only a few moments to find the Promenade. He had said the Theatre on the spur of the moment and was thankful that the young woman seemed to be quick on the uptake. It turned out to be only a few streets away from the Wolfinger.

Thinking it would not take him long to walk there, Biggles strolled out of the hotel into the square. He had barely turned out of the Hauptplatz when he collided with a pretty young woman in a shabby coat, who seemed to appear out of nowhere.

Biggles apologised profusely, raised his hat and would have rushed away, but to his surprise she spoke his name.

"You're the young woman who rang me?" he questioned.

She nodded imperceptibly. "I'm Becca Meier," she informed him. "Your cousin gave me some coins and told me to telephone you, calling myself Mrs Lacey. I couldn't come to the hotel because I'm Jewish."

"Perhaps that was just as well in the circumstances," Biggles told her. "I think I'm being watched." He smiled. "I guessed who you were. I knew Algy was a quick worker, but I couldn't see him managing to get himself hitched in a couple of hours." He glanced around. "We had best keep walking towards the Promenade," he observed. "Anything else would be suspicious." He raised his hat and walked off.

Becca walked a few paces away from him, apparently intent on an errand of her own. As they made their way to the Theatre, she brought him up to date on how she had met Algy and everything that had happened since.

"I was waiting for your friend to come back when I heard the SD patrol go along the street," she concluded. "I watched them go up to our house. When they broke the door down and went in I was terrified. They must have arrested them both. I couldn't think what else to do, so I followed Algy's plan to get in touch with you. I crept out onto the street. I was so afraid they would spot me, but they were all intent on getting into our house. Nobody looked my way, so I managed to get to your hotel. I rang you from the café opposite. I was afraid you would think it was a trap and refuse to talk to me, but when you did I started to hope again. I knew you would have to cross the square to get to the Theatre and if I hadn't managed to bump into you, I would have waited for you there," she finished with a small sigh.

Biggles heard the conclusion of her story with dismay. "This job was never going to be easy," he observed, "but it seems to be going from bad to worse. First I missed the professor by hours and now it looks as though I've lost Algy and your mother. What else is going to go wrong?" he queried plaintively.


	12. Out of the frying pan

**Chapter 12**

**Out Of The Frying Pan**

Algy felt his blood run cold as the hammering was renewed with increased violence. The prospect of arrest at the hands of the Security Service seemed to be staring him in the face. Mrs Meier had gone to pieces. Her face was chalk white and she was cowering against the wall. Algy grabbed her elbow.

"Quick!" he hissed. "Where is the back way out of there?"

She stared at him like a startled rabbit caught in the glare of headlights. For a moment he thought she would not respond, but as he shook her arm urgently, she gasped, "through the kitchen. This way!"

Turning on her heel she led him to the end of the hallway and a door off to the left. The kitchen was dark and cool. Algy closed the door behind them and pushed the table against it.

"Wait here," he ordered as he cautiously opened the back door. The yard was deserted. He waited a moment, listening intently for the sounds of a detachment securing the rear of the building, but it seemed that the patrol was complacent and nobody had been posted to block their retreat.

Algy raced back and took hold of his companion's wrist. "Come on!" he urged. "We're lucky their planning isn't very thorough. They haven't got anybody round the back. We don't have a moment to spare if we're going to get away!"

With that he pulled her through the door and shut it behind him. They hurried across the yard to the back gate where he made her stop again. With every nerve alert for the sound of pursuit, he eased the wooden door open and risked a glance up and down the alley. There were a few spectators gathered at the junction with the main street, attracted by the spectacle of an arrest, but the other end was empty.

"Act naturally," said Algy as he linked arms with her. "We're just two people out for an evening stroll. This raid has nothing to do with us."

He could feel the professor's wife trembling beside him as he did his best to instil some confidence in her and calm her fears. Their best hope of escaping detection lay in acting like innocent passers by. Behind them he could hear the sounds of a mob rampaging through the house they had just left. Fighting his instinct to run, he strolled down the alley until they reached a small side street and could mingle with other pedestrians. Feeling less conspicuous, Algy began to relax a little but Mrs Meier was still shaking.

"Be brave," he encouraged her. "The worst is over now. If you show you are scared, people will start to wonder what you have to be scared about."

She drew a deep breath and tried to compose herself. "If you risk being beaten up every time you go out on the street, you soon begin to feel scared," she told him anxiously.

Algy was appalled. "Does that happen often?" he asked aghast.

"Every day. The brown shirts go round in gangs. It amuses them."

"Then the sooner we get you all out of here the better," replied Algy earnestly. "We have to meet up with my comrade at the Wolfinger," he told her. "Do you know the quickest way to get there from here?"

"It is no use," she told him, despair in her voice. "They will not let me in. They will demand my papers. You have no idea what it is like being a Jew here now that the NDSP has taken over."

"I'm beginning to get some idea," answered Algy grimly.

During this exchange Algy had kept walking so as to avoid drawing attention to themselves. He had been taking turnings at random, intent only on putting as much distance between Krankenhausstrasse and themselves as he could. Now he realised that he knew where he was. He recognised the street where he had encountered the brown shirt in the bric-a-brac shop and remembered what the old man had said to him.

"Don't worry, Mrs Meier," he reassured her. "If you can't go to the hotel, I think we can arrange something else while we arrange to get your husband away from Mauthausen."

When he reached the shop, it was closed and the window boarded up. Algy realised the glass had been shattered since his last visit. With some misgivings, he banged on the door. There was no response. He looked up and down the street. It was deserted, so he persisted in his knocking until eventually a light showed in the window on the first floor. The casement opened and a quavering voice asked who it was.

"I want to speak to Joseph," Algy announced to the invisible occupant. "I need his help."

The window banged shut and the light went out. Algy's heart sank. It seemed that the old man was as frightened as the Meiers, he thought, and the offer of assistance had been an empty one. He was about to turn away when the bolts on the front door were drawn back and the old shopkeeper peered out.

"Come in," he invited them hoarsely. "I did not expect you so soon."

When they were ensconced in the parlour at the back of the shop, Algy introduced his companion and explained the position.

"I was hoping you would be able to help us," he concluded. "I need to find somewhere for Mrs Meier to hide while I meet up with my colleague to arrange to get the family to safety."

"I have seen the Herr Professor at synagogue," acknowledged Joseph. "It will be an honour to give shelter to his wife." He took them up to the attic on the top floor and removed a partition, exposing a small room behind it.

"Frau Meier will be safe here," he assured them. "We have hidden people before. The house has been searched many times, but no one has suspected."

Algy looked at the frail old man with new respect. "I couldn't have hoped to find anything like this," he breathed. "It's just what we need."

"These are evil times," commented Joseph sadly. "There is almost no resistance to the new laws among the general population. We must do what we can to survive."

Algy thought of the scenes he had witnessed in the streets of the regional capital and knew that the old man was right. The canker of Nazism was taking hold. It redoubled his conviction that their only hope was in combating it. He became more convinced than ever that his Government's policy of appeasing Hitler was wrong and doomed to failure.

When he left the attic after taking his leave of the Professor's wife, he clattered down the stairs with renewed purpose. Joseph let him out the back entrance, observing that it was not wise for him to be seen leaving a Jewish establishment out of shop hours.

As Algy followed the man's directions to reach the hotel, he reflected on the base nature of human beings who could use their fellow men as scapegoats. In this sombre, pensive mood he reached his hotel to find that Biggles had gone to the Theatre.

Wearily Algy sank down in an armchair by the window and ordered a cup of coffee and a pastry, realising he was starving. He sat and waited for his order, wondering what on earth had possessed Biggles to go to an opera, when he did not like it. The posters had advertised the Ring of the Nibelungen, which made it all the more extraordinary. It was hard to imagine any reason his cousin would want to sit through Wagner's Ring cycle, he mused. After all, the complete performance lasted fifteen hours, and that was assuming the conductor didn't hang around. That was not Biggles' cup of tea at all.

'I don't know about the Opera,' he thought grimly as he sipped the welcome drink and devoured the sticky confectionery hungrily. 'It's more like a French farce without the humour; first we lost Ginger, then we dropped Smyth. Then I lost Biggles and the professor, but gained Becca. Now I've lost Becca, but gained her mother. All it needs now is for von Stalhein to turn up," he mused gloomily," and that would be the final straw."

As if the dismal thought had somehow conjured up the appearance of his arch enemy, Algy saw the black limousine draw up in front of the hotel. Scarcely able to believe the coincidence and half expecting to see the portly little man who had arrived before, Algy continued to peer out of the window.

His hopes were soon to be dashed. In dismay, he leapt to his feet as the familiar aristocratic figure descended and spoke to his driver before heading for the entrance to the hotel.

When Algy saw von Stalhein in front of the hotel, his immediate thought was that he was about to be arrested. Then he realised that the German was alone, so it must be an administrative visit or there would have been guards with him. In any case, Algy reflected, the moment von Stalhein saw their names in the register, the game would be up so he needed to think fast to preserve his freedom.

Turning on his heel, he made for the staircase, which like most Baroque architecture, was heavily ornamented. The receptionist glanced his way.

"Just going up to my room," Algy announced cheerfully, brandishing his key. "Seeing all the sights certainly takes it out of you! I can't wait to get to bed," he added, yawning loudly for effect.

The man nodded then looked out of the entrance. Algy guessed that he must have spotted von Stalhein because he became at once deferential and hurried out from behind the counter. Realising that the man's back was to him, Algy ducked behind a substantial piece of stone carving to watch events.

The receptionist accompanied von Stalhein to the desk, where the German looked through the register. Algy saw his face go white and knew he had spotted their names. The receptionist cringed under von Stalhein's withering tirade. In vain did he protest that he had sent the names with the Herr _Hauptman_'s subordinate and Algy almost felt sorry for him. He did not feel so sympathetic when the receptionist informed von Stalhein that although Herr Bigglesworth was out at the Opera, Herr Lacey was in his room.

Knowing that von Stalhein would waste no time, Algy ducked down under a piece of marble topped furniture just as von Stalhein and the abject receptionist swept past him up the stairs.

Algy considered his options as the two men ascended the staircase. Mentally reviewing the layout of the hotel, he wondered if he could make his way through the kitchens unopposed and get out the service entrance. He thought the answer was probably no as there would still be staff about.

He could hear von Stalhein berating the wretched receptionist as they climbed the stairs. The lobby was empty. Algy eyed the door contemplatively, wondering if he would have time to escape by the front entrance.

He waited until von Stalhein had disappeared before deciding that boldness was the best policy. He stood up and walked swiftly across the entrance lobby, expecting at any minute to be called back. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck as he covered the distance to the door. He was sure it had become farther since he had come back from leaving Mrs Meier in the bric-a-brac shop.

At last he was at the door and still no hue and cry. Algy emerged into the Square and heaved a sigh of relief. He glanced right and left. There were a few passers by, but no one was taking any notice of him. He set off across the square intending to go back to the shop in Elisabethstrasse, but he had hardly gone two yards when he heard a whistle. His heart sank. He pretended he had not heard and carried on walking. When the whistle was followed by someone shouting his name he got ready to run.


	13. Von Stalhein takes a hand

**Chapter 13**

**Von Stalhein Takes A Hand**

When Ginger pulled up at the hangar in Croydon he felt exhausted. The long drive south had been tiring enough after the emotional upheaval of the funeral, but the poor weather conditions had added to his fatigue. He looked at his watch, thinking he had made good time despite the rain. As if to welcome him back, the weather had cleared and a watery sun was trying to pierce the clouds.

He parked the Bentley in its usual spot and got out. Gratefully, he stretched his limbs and yawned. He wanted to go to bed and sleep, but his yearning to be reunited with Biggles and Algy was overpowering.

Ginger made his way across to the Imperial Airways terminal and was fortunate enough to find a seat on the next flight to Berlin. From there he would have to fly by Lufthansa to Austria, or Ostmark as it had been renamed since the Anschluss.

The flights were uneventful, although Ginger reflected that he never really enjoyed being flown by someone he did not know. The atmosphere when he landed in Berlin gave him a strong feeling of unease. The slogans, banners and prominence of Nazi symbols were disquieting. While the tone of the capital was one of grim efficiency, beneath it Ginger sensed something unpleasant and menacing. His passport and papers were scrutinised minutely and he was questioned intently about the purpose of his visit. He was grateful that the Department of Trade had briefed him so thoroughly.

The same close scrutiny greeted him at Linz. He felt oppressed by the suspicious nature of the bureaucrats who subjected him to interrogation as to the lateness of his arrival when the other delegates had been in Ostmark for some days.

With relief, he cleared customs and immigration and was free to find the Cormorant. He knew Biggles would have parked it at the airport unless he was already on his way back with the Professor. He wondered how he could achieve that as the atmosphere of suspicion had made him wary of making direct enquiries. Indeed, he felt inclined to assume he was being watched, even if he could not spot a tail. In the circumstances, he intended to make any encounter with the rest of his party look accidental on the grounds that the less the authorities knew of their connections, the better.

It might have taken him some time to discover the aircraft's whereabouts if he had not caught a glimpse of Smyth going into the airport restaurant. Swiftly, but with studied casualness, Ginger followed him and was fortunate enough to stand behind him in the queue. As if by accident, he bumped the mechanic's elbow. Smyth turned round, ready to berate the clumsiness of a fellow diner. When he saw who it was, his jaw dropped open.

"Don't react," warned Ginger sotto voce as aloud he apologised in English for the inadvertent contact.

Smyth closed his mouth with a snap that was almost audible. "A fellow Englishman," he exclaimed, taking his cue. "It's good to hear a friendly voice again."

"Have you been here long?" asked Ginger in the hope of getting news of Biggles and Algy.

"A couple of days," replied Smyth. "I'm here with the delegation to the Trade Fair. My bosses have gone off to find a hotel while I look after the aeroplane."

"What a coincidence!" exclaimed Ginger. "That's why I'm here, too. I should have been here earlier, but I had some business at home to complete first."

Smyth looked as though he was about to say something consolatory, but Ginger forestalled him. "And you have your own aeroplane!" he exclaimed quickly to prevent any attempt at condolence. "I've always been keen on flying. Is there any chance of seeing it some time?"

"I don't see why not," allowed the mechanic. "I've only dropped in for a cup of tea. As soon as I've drunk it, I'll take you across."

"That would be terrific!" gushed Ginger. "I'm dying for a cuppa, too. Do you mind if I join you?"

They chose a table near the window. Ginger introduced himself for the benefit of any eavesdroppers and Smyth, following his example, did the same. It seemed to be the most natural thing in the world for an air mechanic and an air-mad teenager to sit together and talk shop. Anyone overhearing their conversation would have learned only that they had an abiding interest in aviation in common and that the young man was well acquainted with the ins and outs of flying.

When they had finished their drinks, Smyth stood up. "If you like, you can have a look around the bus now," he announced.

"Rather!" exclaimed Ginger, giving a good impression of a star-struck schoolboy.

"Come on, then," exhorted the mechanic, unable in spite of himself to suppress a smile.

Ginger followed him out of the restaurant and across the hard standing to a hangar on the far side of the airfield.

As they strolled across the open space where they could not be overheard, Ginger caught up with the latest news of the operation. Smyth could not tell him much, but the mention of von Stalhein sent a shiver down Ginger's spine.

"Are you sure it was him?" he queried.

"Positive," confirmed Smyth. "I saw him get into a Lufthansa aeroplane and I found out it was bound for Berlin."

"Is he still there?" Ginger wanted to know.

"I assume so," replied the mechanic. "I haven't seen him arrive back yet and I can tell you, I've been keeping a sharp lookout. I should imagine he'll be back any day now."

Ginger nodded. "We'll have to get our skates on," he opined. "Do Biggles and Algy know he's around?"

The mechanic nodded. "They must have seen him. Von Stalhein came out of the terminal building not long after they went in."

Ginger drew in a sharp breath. "I hope they weren't spotted," he said fervently. "Do you know where Biggles and Algy are staying?"

"There's only one hotel in the centre that takes foreigners, apparently," responded Smyth and explained where it was.

"At least that simplifies matters," muttered Ginger as they reached the hangar and opened the wicket door. "I had visions of having to search the entire city."

Smyth ducked into the hangar. Ginger was about to follow when he heard the mechanic shout "What do you think you're doing here?"

Ginger stopped on the threshold as a heavily accented German voice answered "Security Service."

Quick as a flash, Ginger dashed round the side of the hangar. There he saw what he had been hoping for; a row of windows. Bending low, he risked a glance through. Smyth was talking to two men in grey uniforms. Torn between a desire to put as much distance between himself and the Nazi authorities as possible and the need to find out what was about to happen to Smyth, Ginger crouched below the windowsill, a prey to indecision. When he looked again, Smyth was handing over a packet. The stouter of the two uniformed officials put it in his pocket and departed, followed by his companion. Ginger watched as they left the hangar and made their way back to the main building. When the coast was clear he slipped though the wicket door and surveyed the hangar. Smyth was alone.

"They gave me a nasty turn," declared Ginger. "What did they want?"

Smyth screwed up his face in disgust. "Bribes," he spat out. They threatened to arrest me and impound the aeroplane on some trumped up pretext. It fair shook me, I'll tell you. Then I realised they had been sorting through some of the provisions and I guessed what they were after. When I offered them a couple of pounds of tea they started to be more amenable."

Ginger looked shocked, but Smyth continued, "they're the second lot I've had round here since we arrived. If I hadn't been sleeping in the hangar, I don't think we'd have anything left. It's a good job we brought plenty with us. They seem to be bullies and petty thieves hiding behind a uniform."

"What a country!" exclaimed Ginger pessimistically. "The sooner we all meet up and get out of here the better!"

With that, Ginger crossed to the main buildings where he could find a taxi to take him to the city centre. As all airmen will, he observed the aeroplanes landing and departing. As he watched, a Lufthansa tri-motor passenger liner drew up at the terminal and began to discharge its passengers.

Idly Ginger ran his eyes over the arrivals. He stiffened as he recognised one of the first to descend and glanced quickly to left and right to see if there was any place of concealment. As he was at the edge of the hard standing, there was nowhere to hide without drawing attention to himself, so Ginger was forced to keep walking towards the terminal where von Stalhein was talking to a short, portly man in a dark suit who had clearly come to meet him.

Ginger held his breath. He had slowed his pace and hung back as much as he dared, but in a few moments he would be forced to pass the pair unless they finished their conversation and entered the building. The crowd of passengers had thinned leaving Ginger feeling exposed and vulnerable. He expected any minute to see von Stalhein turn and spot him. He could almost hear the German purring, "whom have we here? Ah yes, our young friend with the difficult name" and that would be the end of his mission.

He stopped and knelt down to re-tie his shoe lace, bowing his head in case von Stalhein looked his way. He risked a glance back to the hangars where Smyth was standing, looking across at him. At least he'll be able to tell Biggles what happened to me, thought Ginger, although that was little compensation. Damn the man! Why couldn't he finish talking and go?

When he looked up, von Stalhein was no longer there. Ginger heaved a sigh of relief, which he quickly realised might be premature. Von Stalhein could be waiting inside the terminal. As nonchalantly as possible, Ginger entered the building, half expecting to be arrested, but there was no sign of the German.

Having completed the formalities, Ginger took a taxi to the Wolfinger. As it drew up, he saw von Stalhein get out of a large black limousine that was blocking the entrance. 'Of all the hotels in Linz the man had to choose,' thought Ginger angrily, 'why did he have to pick this one?' On calmer reflection he realised that if von Stalhein was checking up on foreigners, there was only one hotel in the Old Town where he would find them. He stared as the German spoke to his chauffeur and made for the entrance, then realised that his taxi driver was looking at him curiously.

Ginger made a great show of not understanding the fare and fumbling with the Austrian currency, playing for time. When he at last got out of the cab, he was relieved to see that von Stalhein had gone into the hotel. Ginger stood on the pavement, ostensibly sorting his change until his taxi had departed. His brain was racing and he felt overwhelmed by the speed of events. One thing was certain, he realised, he could not go into the hotel, nor could he stay where he was. He looked around the Hauptplatz for inspiration. There was a café opposite, which commanded a good view of the hotel.

Ginger stifled a yawn. He had got some rest on the aeroplane, but he still felt deathly tired. He decided that he would sit and have a cup of coffee while he deliberated on his next move and kept an eye on proceedings. If von Stalhein left, at least he would know about it.

He had barely got settled at a table near the window when to his amazement he saw Algy emerge from the front entrance and walk across the square. Taking a risk that it would bring unwelcome attention, Ginger went to the entrance of the café and whistled. When Algy took no notice and carried on walking, Ginger shouted his name.

At last Algy looked his way and his jaw dropped as he recognised who it was. Ginger beckoned, but Algy needed no urging. He almost sprinted across to the café to join his comrade.

They wasted no time on greetings, but after they had sat down at the table by the window recently vacated by Ginger, Algy clasped the lad's shoulder. "Am I glad to see you!" he exclaimed with feeling. "Von Stalhein's in the hotel."

"I know, I saw him arrive," replied Ginger. "He got there just before me. That's why I'm in here; I thought it best to keep out of his way. Where's Biggles?"

Algy brought him up to date.

"The Opera?" exclaimed Ginger in disbelief. "He hates it!"

Algy shrugged then nudged Ginger, nodding his head in the direction of the hotel. Ginger turned to look. Von Stalhein was emerging from the hotel entrance. Even at this distance they could tell that the German was in a towering rage. As the black limousine swept out of the Square, Ginger turned his mind back to the thorny problem of how to establish contact with Biggles.

"Any ideas?" he asked Algy. "What was the last thing he said?"

"To meet him back at the hotel," replied Algy. "But that was this morning." He stopped. "Was it only this morning?" he said wonderingly. "It seems like a long time ago, so much has happened."

Ginger nodded. "It's been a long day for me, too."

Algy regarded him compassionately but said nothing.

Ginger roused himself. "Then I suppose that's what we'd better do," he said, passing a hand wearily over his eyes. "Keep an eye on the hotel in case Biggles turns up."


	14. Biggles shows his mettle

**Chapter 14**

**Biggles Shows His Mettle**

Biggles stopped and glanced around. They had nearly reached the theatre and the street was full of opera goers in groups of twos or threes. Intent on their evening's entertainment, no one seemed to be paying any attention to them, so he drew Becca aside.

"It's no use complaining when things go wrong," he concluded bitterly. "The main thing is, we've made contact with you and we need to get you to a place of safety. I'll take you to the airport and leave you with my mechanic. You'll be safe hidden in the machine."

The girl protested that she would not leave without her parents.

Biggles sighed. "I don't want to be chasing my tail trying to round you all up again," he explained with asperity. "If you're with Smyth, that will be two less bodies to worry about when we do manage to get out of here. At the moment, we're spread out round the city like ball bearings dropped on the carpet."

Becca looked undecided. "I promise we won't go without your parents if they're still alive," he assured her. "You have my word on that."

She looked into his eyes and was comforted by what she saw. "I believe you mean that," she acknowledged quietly. "It is very hard for us to trust anyone in Linz at the moment," she added, "but I trust you."

Biggles smiled and took her arm. "We'd better get a taxi to the airport."

She recoiled. "I cannot do that," she gasped. "Jews are not allowed to use taxis."

"Who is to know?" asked Biggles. "Nobody has asked for my credentials."

"You are a foreigner," she explained. "If you were a Jew, you would not have been granted an entry permit."

Biggles' jaw set in a grim line. "We'll see about that, if they try to stop you getting in a taxi with me. Say nothing and act as though you have every right to be there."

In the event, Biggles was proved right. He kept the taxi driver talking while Becca got in and the man barely glanced at the girl. The journey to the airport was not lengthy, but Biggles could feel the tension in his companion. Sadly, he realised that resistance to the racial laws was not likely to be great. The Jewish community was already cowed and the rest of the citizens of Linz did not appear to appreciate the sinister nature of what was going on, or if they did, they showed no signs of deploring it.

At the airport Biggles steered Becca through the entrance and across to the door which led to the hard standing and the hangars. An official in a grey uniform stopped him.

Biggles stared at the man and explained that he was with the Trade Delegation, needing some supplies from his aeroplane. The man asked for his papers, which Biggles supplied. When the guard turned to Becca, Biggles broke in sharply, "Fraulein Göring is my secretary. She has been seconded to us from the office of _Hauptman_ von Stalhein. I'm sure you would not like me to have to tell him that you obstructed us in the pursuance of our duty."

The guard stiffened. "Of course not, Herr Bigglesworth. You may pass."

"I shall want to go in and out regularly to my aeroplane," Biggles informed him. "See that I have a pass for myself and my secretary waiting when I return or you may be sure that I shall inform _Hauptman_ von Stalhein of your inefficiency."

"_Jawohl_, _mein_ _Herr_," the man clicked his heels and allowed them through.

As they crossed the tarmac, Becca stared at Biggles in amazement. "I can't believe that you got him to let us through," she breathed.

Biggles laughed shortly. "The Germans have a very bureaucratic mind," he retorted. "For one thing, it's unlikely to occur to them that if one set of papers is correct, the accompanying set wouldn't be just as good and for another, they have a pathetic obedience to higher authority. Besides," he added, "I know von Stalhein of old. He's ruthlessly efficient. No wonder the man didn't want to me to report to him. I wouldn't like to be in his shoes if Erich finds out he was duped."

Biggles opened the wicket door in the hangar and poked his head through, calling for Smyth.

The mechanic appeared immediately and Biggles drew Becca after him. When the introductions had been made, Smyth brought Biggles up to date on Ginger's arrival and the return of von Stalhein.

Biggles grimaced. "It's as if this mission is jinxed," he observed. "If Ginger had caught a later flight, he wouldn't have gone into town before we got here. It's always a mistake to split the party up."

When Biggles told Smyth the latest news of Algy, the mechanic shook his head, opining that it sounded bad. "Maybe that was why von Stalhein came back," suggested Smyth. "To interrogate him."

"It's no use assuming the worst," muttered Biggles. "What we need is facts. Put the kettle on and we'll have a cup of tea while we discuss what to do next."

As they sat round a packing case, Biggles went over what they knew so far. "So the next step is simple," he concluded, "find Algy and Mrs Meier, get hold of Ginger and get the professor out of Mauthausen so we can go home."

"Put like that, it doesn't sound much, does it?" remarked Smyth.

"I think I'll try and find Ginger first," decided Biggles. "After all, we know he went to the Wolfinger, so assuming he hasn't gone gallivanting off somewhere, he should be reasonably easy to locate. Once I've contacted him, I'll decide what to do. It's von Stalhein who's the spanner in the works," he complained. "If it weren't for him, we'd be home and dry."


	15. A stroke of luck

**Chapter 15**

**A Stroke of Luck**

"If it weren't for von Stalhein, life would be much simpler," sighed Algy as he stirred his coffee. "It's bad enough his being here in the first place, but now he knows we're here too, he'll be going all out to get us in his clutches. We've been very lucky to escape capture so far."

Ginger nodded. "Do you think he's guessed we're here for the professor?"

Algy shrugged. "Who knows? I wouldn't put it past him," he concluded pessimistically. "This much is certain, he'll leave no stone unturned until he's found us and we can't stay in this café on the off chance that Biggles will roll up."

"So what _are_ we going to do?" Ginger wanted to know.

Algy hesitated. "I'm loath to split up now we've just got together. As Biggles says, it's usually a mistake to divide the party. That's certainly been the case so far," he observed. "Biggles and I have done nothing but miss each other by inches by the look of things. Mrs Meier should be safe enough where she is. The question is, did Becca get in touch with Biggles and is that why he went to the Opera, to meet her?"

"I can't think of any other reason," opined Ginger. "If he did, though, what did he do next?"

"He'd hardly sit through the performance," said Algy with a grin. "He couldn't bring Becca back to the hotel," he continued in more serious vein, "so he'd have to find somewhere else to hide her." He paused for a moment before telling Ginger, "I can only think of one place and that's the hangar. He'd reckon she'd be safe with Smyth."

"That sounds likely," observed Ginger, but then he grimaced. "That means that if we go to the airport and we're wrong, we could find that Biggles has done what he said he'd do and come back to the hotel to meet up with you. Then we would miss each other again. At this rate, we'll spend so much time running around looking for each other that the professor will either have started working for the Germans or been bumped off because he refused." He stifled a yawn and passed a hand over his eyes wearily.

Algy frowned. "You look all in," he observed. "You need somewhere to catch up on your sleep."

"Where? I can't book into the hotel," said Ginger. "The receptionist would be on the phone to Erich before I'd got to my room. I can't imagine that he'd believe the pair of you were here alone. My name is sure to be on a wanted list by now. I suppose I'd better go back to the airfield. Perhaps I'll catch Biggles there."

"Erich might have put the word out there as well," murmured Algy. "I think I might know somewhere closer to hand," he mused. "If I leave you with Mrs Meier that will be two of you in one place at least. That will leave me free either to go to the airfield or to keep an eye on the hotel in case Biggles comes back."

"Do you think that's a good idea?" asked Ginger doubtfully. "Isn't it asking the old man to take a big risk hiding two people?"

"Let's ask him and let him decide," concluded Algy, standing up and dropping some coins on the table.

Ginger followed him onto the Square. As they emerged from the café they noticed a taxi draw up at the hotel. With their minds still on von Stalhein, they glanced at it idly as they were about to pass by in case the occupant was known to them. To their relief and delight they saw that the passenger alighting was Biggles.

Abandoning caution to the winds they hurried across and accosted him before he could enter the building. Taking Biggles by the elbow and leading him across the Square in the direction of Elisabethstrasse, Algy brought him up to date as swiftly as possible.

"We had better go to the bric-a-brac shop," concluded Biggles when Algy had finished speaking. "We can't hang around on the Square all evening and now Erich knows we booked into the hotel, there's always a chance he'll spring a surprise raid on us. Ginger looks as though he could do with a good night's sleep, too," he observed "I'll let you know what I've been doing when we get there."

They made their way to Elisabethstrasse without wasting any time. Algy suggested that they go to the back entrance he had used when he left the professor's wife there.

It seemed an age before they heard the bolts being drawn back, but at last the old Jew stood before them. Algy apologised and explained their predicament.

He had hoped that his request would not be refused and he was not disappointed. The old man beckoned them in and took them up to the attic, where Mrs Meier had retreated to the hiding place behind the false wall on hearing them come up the stairs. When she had been coaxed out, Algy introduced Biggles and Ginger.

They all sat down while Biggles questioned Mrs Meier about what had happened to the professor and tried to find out as much as he could about Mauthausen. Joseph brought them all cups of strong black coffee that tasted of acorns, lamenting that it was the best that he could get nowadays.

Ginger, listening to Biggles and Algy discussing plans, found their voices becoming more distant. He leaned against the wall, feeling himself drifting off to sleep despite his efforts to keep awake. He struggled against drowsiness for several minutes, but eventually nature won and he dropped off to sleep. When he woke up, he discovered someone had tucked a blanket round him and placed a folded coat under his head. Biggles and Algy were sitting on the opposite side of the room, still deep in conversation, their voices low. Mrs Meier was nowhere to be seen, so he assumed she had retreated into her hiding place once more. He had no idea how long he had been asleep, a few minutes or several hours, but he felt refreshed apart from a slight stiffness.

Seeing Ginger was awake, Biggles beckoned him across and went over what he and Algy had been discussing. The plan which Biggles outlined was relatively simple and straightforward, but Biggles was the first to admit that there was plenty of room for things to go wrong.

"It all hinges on the question of transport," observed Biggles. "Without a vehicle of our own, we'll have to acquire one somehow."

"What about flying up?" suggested Ginger. "That way, we could go straight home after we've got the professor."

"I considered that," replied Biggles, "but we don't know if there is anywhere to land and then there is a risk of the aircraft being spotted and seized while we are attempting the rescue. We should look pretty silly if we got the professor out only to find that his wife and daughter are in prison and the aircraft is surrounded by armed guards."

"There's nothing to say it's going to be safe at the airfield," countered Ginger. "Now that von Stalhein knows you're here, he's bound to guess we've brought an aeroplane and it won't take a lot of investigation to find out where it is."

"Ginger's got a point," affirmed Algy.

Biggles nodded. "I must admit," he conceded, "that I don't like having the party dispersed like this. The sooner we're all back together the better."

"The sooner we're all back in England with the professor, the better," muttered Algy with feeling. "I don't like the atmosphere in this country one bit."

Biggles' jaw set in a grim line. "You're right. The whole set up stinks worse than a blocked drain."

"Then it's about time we had a go at clearing it," grinned Algy.

"And disinfected the place," smiled Ginger, following up the analogy.

Biggles allowed himself a small smile. "Enough fooling," he continued more seriously. "We need to find out if there is anywhere to land near Mauthausen where the aircraft can remain concealed. If there is, we shall have to find a way to get everybody to the airfield. We're getting to be such a big party that we'll have to be careful or we'll start attracting attention."

Joseph produced a road map, which although not ideal, at least gave them some idea of the terrain.

Ginger was surprised to find that it was produced by Shell. He was even more astonished to find that there was a blue line running through Austria where the rule of the road changed from driving on the right to driving on the left.

Joseph explained to him that it had been like that because of the Hapsburg Empire which had kept to the left, while the part Napoleon had controlled drove on the right. After the Anschluss, he remarked bitterly, everyone had been forced to change over to driving on the right overnight. It had caused chaos, the old man said, shaking his head sadly.

"I'm not surprised!" exclaimed Ginger. "All the road signs would be facing the wrong way."

Biggles looked at the map, scrutinising the terrain for a suitable landing place. He thought it would be possible to land on part of the flood plain of the Danube, to the east of the town.

Once he was sure a landing was feasible, Biggles turned his mind to the question of transport to the airport. He dismissed the idea of taking taxis because of the size of their group. What they needed, he averred, was a car of their own.

Joseph regretted that he had no access to transport himself, but he said he would make enquiries. There was a doctor who, although a Gentile, did not agree with the new race laws. It was possible, he said, that this man would help. He went off on his errand, leaving the group to get what rest they could until his return.


	16. Smyth takes charge

**Chapter 16**

**Smyth Takes Charge**

When Biggles left to go to the city, Smyth set about making Becca comfortable. He arranged the stores so as to provide a hiding space for her if they should receive another visit from the men in grey uniforms. In any case, he observed, she looked as though she needed some rest. Becca nodded. The adrenalin of the events in Krankenhausstrasse and the tension she had experienced when making contact with Biggles had drained her. She felt deathly tired and was grateful for the opportunity to rest.

Becca crawled into the small space, lay down on the blanket Smyth had laid out between the crates and fell asleep almost immediately.

Before she closed her eyes, she said gratefully to the mechanic, "thank you, Herr Smyth. This is the first time I have felt safe since the Germans came. I almost dare to hope."

"The Major and Captain Lacey will make sure you're alright," Smyth told her confidently as he moved a box of bully beef across to block the entrance to the hiding place. "Keep quiet and no-one will know you're there," he advised her. "If you hear anybody come into the hangar, just keep your head down. I'll be keeping watch outside the aeroplane."

With that he descended the steps and put the kettle on the primus stove. He checked carefully to make sure there was no sign of their guest should anyone decide to drop in. While he was about it, he made sure there were some packets of tea and sugar handy in case the men in grey came back. The last thing he wanted, he thought, was to have them poking around in the aeroplane on the lookout for what they could get away with.

At last the kettle boiled and Smyth made himself a cup of tea, reflecting as he stirred it, that if he had not decided to go to the restaurant for a change from evaporated milk, he would have missed Ginger. He wondered how the lad was getting on and whether he had managed to make contact with the others.

Time passed slowly. It always did drag when you were waiting for something to happen, mused Smyth. To keep himself busy, he decided to give the aircraft the once over. There was no point in finding that something was amiss if they needed it in a hurry, he said to himself as he walked round the fuselage, testing the control surfaces.

When he moved the rudder, the resistance suddenly disappeared and the tail plane went slack in his grip. Smothering a curse, the mechanic realised that one of the cables must have snapped. Thanking his foresight in checking everything he went inside the cabin and began to trace the control wires. He drew in his breath sharply when he saw that the linkage near the rudder pedal had been severed. The cut ends of the cable showed bright in the light of his torch. It was no accident.

Smyth realised it must have been done when he went to the restaurant. Those men in grey uniforms had not just been looking for booty, he understood at last. The question was, why, he asked himself. Hatred of foreigners, spite or did they suspect that the Trade Fair mission was a cover? As far as he knew, von Stalhein was not aware that their party was in Austria, so would he have been behind the attempt at sabotage?

Realising that he would be unlikely to find the answer to those questions, Smyth set about repairing the damage. If they had taken off, the control would have snapped the first time they tried to manoeuvre, he reflected. The consequences of that did not bear contemplation. He made a mental note that he had better make sure that he checked everything else out very carefully once he had completed this job.

The linkage was in an awkward place and the cable had slid back into its housing, making the work take longer than he had hoped. More than once, lying under the control column as he grappled with the cable, his body wedged in the confined space making the connections, Smyth wished Ginger had been there to help him. An extra pair of hands would not have come amiss and the youngster was a good ground engineer. Besides, thought Smyth with not a little envy, the lad was young enough and slim enough to be able to fit easily in the space by the rudder pedals.

When the repair was finally completed to his satisfaction, Smyth wiped his brow with the back of his hand and set about a thorough examination of the rest of the aeroplane. To his relief, no more unwelcome surprises awaited him.

He had just settled down to a much needed cup of tea when the hangar door rattled. Smyth looked up suspiciously. The door rattled again and after a short pause, he heard someone try the wicket.

Smyth snatched up a heavy wrench and made his way quietly up the steps into the cabin of the aeroplane. If whoever was trying to get in was up to no good, thought the mechanic grimly, they wouldn't have it all their own way.

Gently, he pulled the cabin door to behind him, leaving it slightly ajar so that he could see into the hangar without exposing himself to view, and settled down to wait. Unfortunately, he realised, the position of the aeroplane meant that the narrow aperture would not let him see the doorway. He decided he would just have to stay put and act as he saw fit when he knew what was happening and who the intruder was.

As Smyth waited in the cabin, straining his ears, he heard the wicket swing open. From the sounds he could make out that more than one person had stepped into the hangar before the wicket swung shut again, but as yet no one had come into his range of vision. He heard murmurs but whoever was talking was speaking in too low a voice for him to make out the words. Smyth gripped the wrench more tightly. The party that had come into the hanger was making its way towards the tail of the aeroplane, still obscured from his view. Smyth felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

He whispered a warning to Becca in case she was awake, but received no reply. He glanced once more at her hiding place, feeling sure that it would pass inspection as long as no one moved the crates.

As the unexpected visitors made their way towards his position, Smyth tensed. In a second or two he would glimpse the intruders. He got ready to fling open the door, leap down the steps and defend the aircraft.


	17. The best laid plans

**Chapter 17**

**The Best Laid Plans**

"Well, that's settled, then," concluded Biggles when Joseph had departed on his errand. "If we can get hold of a car, we'll all go to the airport and fly the Cormorant up to Mauthausen." He searched in his pockets for a cigarette. "I shall be relieved when we've got everybody together again," he confessed quietly to Algy when his cousin offered one of his.

He was about to light up when Ginger asked him if that was wise. "Suppose somebody comes up here and they can see or smell cigarette smoke," he continued. "They might find the concealed compartment and then Joseph would be for it. It would be a rotten way to reward him for all he's done for us."

Biggles admitted the truth of Ginger's observation and reluctantly put the cigarette back in his pocket. Algy smiled.

They disposed themselves in various attitudes of patience until the old Jew returned with a corpulent middle-aged man whom he introduced as Doctor Braun.

The doctor spoke English well. He said he had studied in London just after the war and was quite willing to let them use his car. He suggested that he drove them to the airport in case they were stopped. If that happened, he asserted, he could deal with the officials.

"I am quite well known," he explained, "and often have to travel at night on medical business. If I am driving, it is less likely to arouse suspicion."

Biggles thanked him, acknowledging the wisdom of his words. It also solved the problem of returning the car once they had taken off for Mauthausen, he realised.

"We'd best be going then," decided Biggles. "I'd like to get to Mauthausen at first light, when it's still dark enough not to be easily spotted, but there's enough daylight to avoid running into anything."

They fetched Mrs Meier from the concealed compartment and explained what they had planned. She looked resigned and not entirely in control of her nerves, but was keen to be reunited with her husband.

Joseph accompanied them to the back door where the doctor's car waited, gleaming in the faint light from the stars. When he was sure that the coast was clear, the old Jew ushered them out and wished them good luck.

Ginger looked at the car with awe. He was astounded by its size. The bonnet curved forward in a mighty sweep between its headlights and the rear ended in a point, adorned with a fin that bisected the tail section from roof to chromium plated bumper. Unlike the cars he was used to in England, it had no running boards, giving it a sleek, streamlined appearance. He thought it was a futuristic monster, resting on its whitewall tyres. Before he saw it, he had wondered how they would all manage to squeeze in, but the bulk of the vehicle reassured him that it would accommodate them with ease.

The doctor pulled open the rear passenger door and invited them to enter. Algy handed Mrs Meier in and slid onto the seat beside her. Biggles followed.

"Can I sit in front?" pleaded Ginger.

"Why not, _Junge_?" smiled the doctor as he closed the rear door with a satisfyingly substantial thud.

The motor car was built like a tank, thought Ginger as he seized the handle and pulled the front door open. The seats were leather and reassuringly luxurious. The doctor had drawn away before Ginger realised it was a right-hand drive. When he mentioned it, Doctor Braun said that he had bought it in the part of Austria that drove on the left. "Some models had steering wheels on the left and some on the right - before we had no choice in the matter," he concluded bitterly.

They skirted the town and headed for the airport. More than once the wisdom of the doctor's accompanying them was borne out as police waved them through checks once they had recognised him.

Biggles suggested that they were dropped outside the airport to make their way to the hangar on foot, but the doctor insisted it would be much less likely to invite investigation if he drove them across. "I can say that I have been called out to deal with an emergency," he asserted.

Biggles acquiesced with some misgivings. The doctor had proved his worth so far, he acknowledged, but he was concerned for the man's fate should he be linked with the professor's escape.

Doctor Braun brushed Biggles' qualms aside. "Whatever happens to me," he asserted, "I do not want to feel I have done nothing to stop my country being overwhelmed by evil."

"You're a very brave man, _Herr Doktor_," Biggles declared as they drew up outside their hangar. When they had all alighted, he held out his hand and thanked their benefactor.

"I wish you all God speed," replied the doctor. "I think the success of your mission will be vital in determining the outcome of whatever awaits us in the next few years."

With these prophetic words, he got back behind the wheel and drove off into the night.

Ginger watched as the car disappeared, the bright red tail lights finally vanishing into the distance.

The hangar lights were on. Biggles tried the wicket. It was stuck, but he managed to free it, causing it to rattle loudly. He paused but there was no response from within. They all stepped in through the small door and Biggles closed it behind them.

Suspicious, he told the others quietly, "Ginger, come with me. Algy, stay here with Mrs Meier. Smyth ought to be here with Becca. I don't like it that there's no sign of them."

Cautiously, with Ginger following him as silently as a cat, Biggles advanced across the hangar floor, his senses alert for the slightest danger. He paused by a packing case that bore half a mug of tea and Ginger almost bumped into him. The lad's nerves were at screaming point.

'I can't take much more of this,' he thought grimly. 'If a pin drops, I'll jump a mile!'

Biggles' eyes swept the hangar. Satisfied with his scrutiny, he resumed his advance, heading for the tail of the aeroplane.

There was still no sign of their mechanic or the professor's daughter. Biggles edged round the aileron and crept towards the door of the aircraft. He reached out and eased it open, but immediately the door flew back and he was obliged to jump back rapidly to avoid his mechanic swinging a heavy wrench. Ginger, right behind him, was knocked flying and Biggles barely kept his feet.

Just in time, Smyth recognised his would-be assailant and dropped the wrench.

"Beg pardon, Sir," he stuttered in embarrassment, "I thought you was a grey shirt!"

"A grey shirt!" exclaimed Ginger, starting to pick himself up from the floor and rubbing his elbow, "I've nearly got grey hair! You'll be having to find another nickname for me!"

Biggles hauled him to his feet as Smyth picked up the wrench.

"I take it you've had unwelcome visitors, then" he observed dryly as the mechanic stowed the improvised weapon in the tool kit. "Bring Mrs Meier over," he called to Algy, and then aside to Smyth, "Becca is still here, isn't she? I mean you haven't lost her while I was in Linz."

The mechanic looked pained. "Of course not, Sir. She's asleep in the hidey hole."

"Good!" affirmed Biggles. "I've had about enough of chasing round and round trying to get everybody together. Get the machine ready. We're flying up to Mauthausen immediately."

"What about clearance?" queried Algy as they pulled the heavy doors open.

"What about it?" countered Biggles. "Do you think they'd give it if we requested it?"

Algy shrugged. "I suppose not."

Biggles called Ginger over. "I want you to stay in the cabin and look after Mrs Meier and Becca," he instructed him. Seeing Ginger's crestfallen expression, he added, "that's a very important task, laddie. Without his wife and daughter, we won't get the professor to agree to come to England."

Reluctantly, Ginger nodded. Biggles clapped him on the shoulder and went to help Smyth and Algy manhandle the machine through the open doors.

Ginger helped Mrs Meier mount the steps to the cabin. She looked around wildly, calling for her daughter. The pile of crates moved slightly and an agitated voice called to be let out. Ginger hastened to remove the top box and could not repress a smile when a young woman stuck her head out like a Jack-in-the-box. There was no doubt about her identity when she and Mrs Meier threw themselves into each other's arms sobbing and chattering in some language he could not understand.

As the machine began to move towards the doors of the hangar, Ginger tried to get them to take their seats and buckle their seat belts. He might as well have been trying to prise a clam off an unwary fisherman's leg, he thought. They were still unsecured when the aircraft was lined up for its take-of run and Smyth had swung the props. In desperation when the engines started, Ginger raised one of the arms between two passenger seats and, coaxing them into position, strapped the Meiers together. Smyth swung himself into the cabin as the aeroplane started to taxi and locked the door.

The aircraft gathered speed rapidly. Ginger was still buckling his own safety belt when it lifted off.


	18. A bumpy flight

**Chapter 18**

**A Bumpy Flight**

"Keep a close look-out, Algy," instructed Biggles as the machine roared down the runway. "We might have ruffled a few feathers leaving like this."

He had barely uttered the words when a red Very light arced through the sky. Biggles ignored it.

As the machine lifted off, Biggles glimpsed lights travelling along the perimeter track. It looked as though they had sent motor vehicles rather than aircraft, he surmised, so out-running them would not pose any difficulty, but he could not be sure that fighters would not follow.

"I'm going to keep low," he told Algy as he banked sharply to turn south, away from their destination. "If we come up to Mauthausen from the south, we should miss the mountains and hopefully they won't work out our destination immediately."

Algy nodded and stifled a yawn. Biggles looked at him critically. "You look as though you could do with a rest," he observed. "Send Ginger up here; he managed to snatch some sleep, so he can relieve you for a spell."

"What about you?" countered Algy. "You haven't had any more sleep than I have."

"All the more reason for one of us to get some shut-eye," insisted Biggles.

Realising the wisdom of Biggles' words, Algy undid his safety strap and eased himself out of the co-pilot's seat, reflecting that Ginger would be pleased at the summons. He squeezed through the narrow connecting hatch into the passenger cabin.

Smyth was sitting next to the Meiers, trying to explain what was happening. Ginger was facing them, staring out of the window at the darkness below.

Algy touched him on the shoulder and passed on Biggles' message. The lad's eyes lit up and he shot out of his seat with alacrity, wasting no time in sliding through the hatch into the cockpit.

Algy smiled and settled into the hastily vacated seat. Becca looked at him fearfully. Algy leaned across and squeezed her hand reassuringly, encouraging her to rest as much as she could because she was likely to need all her energies to help free her father.

"But if you are here, who is flying the aeroplane?" she asked nervously.

Algy explained about dual controls. "Ginger will take a spell to let Biggles get some rest, too," he added. "We'll all need to have our wits about us when we get to Mauthausen and it won't be long now."

He composed himself to relax as best he could. It seemed he had barely closed his eyes when the change in engine note awoke him, warning him that they were about to start descent to their destination.

Smyth had started buckling the Meiers' safety belts. Algy clapped him on the shoulder as he passed by to reach the cockpit and the mechanic replied with a thumbs-up.

"Everything okay?" queried Algy as he poked his head through the connecting hatch.

Biggles and Ginger were silhouetted against the first rosy light of dawn. Below, Algy knew, the land would still be in darkness.

"Just starting the descent now," confirmed Biggles. "I've throttled back and want to glide in. The less people who know we're coming the better," he added grimly. "I don't want von Stalhein to send a welcoming party."

Algy stood watching for a moment as Biggles slipped off some height in a shallow S turn. The light was strengthening all the time and he realised that Biggles had timed it exactly right. They would have darkness for their approach, but enough light to survey the landing ground for obstacles, although it would wreck their plans completely if they had to open up and go round again because it was impossible to get down where they expected.

The aeroplane sank gently, the wind sighing over the wings. Algy returned to his seat in the cabin and strapped himself in, warning Becca and her mother that the landing was imminent.

He tensed as he felt the aircraft flare out, waiting for the wheels to touch. Through the window he could see the countryside rushing backwards. He hated not being in control, he decided, although he acknowledged that there was little he could have done had he been in the cockpit. Now they were below the trees. He hoped Biggles had been able to see a clear run and that there were no hidden obstacles.

His breath escaped with a long drawn out sigh as the aircraft kissed the ground and slowed. It trundled along for a few yards until it stopped suddenly as if held by an arrester wire. He was pushed back into his seat and the other passengers were flung forward against their restraining straps. Mrs Meier screamed. The crates which they had not had time to secure slid towards the front of the cabin as the nose dipped and the tail rose alarmingly. For one moment, Algy thought they were about to tip over, but fortunately the rear of the aircraft did not rise above the vertical. They hung there for a moment before the tail gradually settled and equilibrium was restored.

He freed himself and made for the cockpit as Smyth opened the cabin door and helped their near hysterical passengers out.

"What happened?" he asked Biggles who was wiping blood off Ginger's face.

"We hit a drainage ditch," was the muttered reply. "I didn't see it until it was too late. That's the trouble with not being able to reconnoitre the ground before we touch down."

"Is Ginger alright?" asked Algy. "He looks very pale."

"It's shock. He banged his cheek on the instrument panel."

"I'm okay," asserted Ginger gamely. "What about the passengers?"

"They're a bit shaken," admitted Algy. "Smyth has got them out."

"We'd better check the machine over," averred Biggles as he and Algy helped Ginger onto the ground, despite his protests that he felt fine.

Biggles told Ginger to take Becca and her mother under cover while the others checked for damage.

Mrs Meier clucked over the young man when she saw the cut on his cheek and promptly forgot about her own troubles. When Biggles returned to the group with the welcome report that the undercarriage had suffered a severe strain, but the machine was otherwise unharmed, he saw that Mrs Meier was in charge and Ginger had a neat bandage around his head. Becca was taking the lad's pulse in a very professional manner and most of Ginger's colour had returned.

"We'll push the machine under the trees at the far end," explained Biggles. "She should be safe enough from discovery there and if she's lined up facing the field, she'll be ready for a quick take off when we've achieved our objective."

"How far is it to the camp?" asked Ginger.

"About a mile. According to Joseph, it's situated by the Wienergraben quarry. They're making the prisoners bring the stone up to construct the buildings. It's not completed yet. By the sound of it, it will be a long job."

"With any luck, that should make our task easier," opined Algy optimistically. "They may not have finished the fortifications."

"I'd be surprised if that's the case," retorted Biggles, "but you may be right. In any event, if the prisoners are being made to work, that means they won't be locked up all the time and it may be possible to arrange an escape when they are out of camp. It would certainly be easier if we could get to them without having to break in."

"What have you got in mind?" Ginger wanted to know.

"Until I've seen what we're up against, I don't have any fixed plan," admitted Biggles. "It all depends on what we find when we reconnoitre the camp." He looked at the lad intently. "How are you feeling? Perhaps it would be better if we left you in charge of the aeroplane."

"I'm fine," protested Ginger, mortified at the thought of being left behind. "It's only a superficial cut."

Biggles continued to look at him reflectively. Ginger returned his gaze steadily, holding his breath while Biggles deliberated his fate.


	19. Not so easy after all

**Chapter 19**

**Not So Easy After All**

"Alright, you can come," decided Biggles after what seemed to Ginger to be an age. The lad let his breath out with a soft sigh. He looked across at Algy. Ginger grinned sheepishly when he saw Algy smiling at his discomfiture.

Biggles strode back to the Cormorant and opened the hidden compartment. He took out two revolvers, handed one to Algy and put the other in his pocket, remarking that it was best to be prepared for any eventuality. He left one pistol in the compartment in case Smyth needed it during their absence. Biggles detailed the mechanic to stay with the aircraft and make it ready for a quick take-off in case they needed to leave in a hurry. Ginger, who had followed Biggles across to the Cormorant, gave Smyth a hand with the positioning of the machine and the gathering of branches to cover the surfaces.

"You had better stay here with Smyth," Biggles advised Mrs Meier while the machine was being camouflaged. "Becca can come with us to help identify her father. If we can make contact with him, she can convince him of our bona fides."

Reluctantly, Mrs Meier agreed. She spoke to her daughter in German while Biggles took Algy to one side.

"I hope we shall be able to get in touch with the professor on one of these work parties," he told his cousin. "If we've got to get inside the camp, it's going to be that much harder."

Algy nodded. "Did Joseph give you any more information about what is happening?"

"He said that the prisoners were being forced to carry the stone up from the quarries and that new arrivals were marched from the station to the site of the camp. I should imagine the professor is already in the barracks, but we'll start off by investigating the road just in case. It's too much to hope that he'll just march past so close, but we'd look a bunch of idiots if he did and we missed such an easy opportunity of letting him know we're here."

Algy murmured his agreement. Moments later Becca and Ginger came across to join them and they set off across the field towards the road that wound through the plain beside the Danube.

"Don't make too much noise," cautioned Biggles as they neared the highway. "We don't want to be spotted if we can help it."

The party moved on with more caution although there was very little traffic. Biggles stopped to listen before advancing to within ten yards of the causeway. From his place of concealment in the undergrowth, he surveyed the road.

"How shall we know when the prisoners are going to come along here?" Ginger wanted to know, kneeling beside him. "We could be waiting for hours."

"Joseph said that they arrived by early morning train and were marched along this road from the station," Biggles told him, aware of the lad's dislike of hanging around. "If they haven't gone past by 10, they probably aren't coming today."

Ginger sighed and settled down in the bushes to wait with as much patience as he could muster. Algy and Becca found a spot where they could rest their backs against a tree trunk.

Any shreds of mist lingering over the water had been burned off as the sun rose higher. Ginger chafed at the inaction, but said nothing. Biggles took a cigarette out of his pocket and tapped it on the back of his hand reflectively, unwilling to light it lest the scent of the tobacco or the smoke betray their position.

It was Ginger who was the first to hear the approach of the column of prisoners. He sat up and touched Biggles on the arm as the steady tramp of feet reached his ears.

Biggles nodded. "I can hear them," he breathed. Algy and Becca sidled up beside them. "Just point if you spot your father," Biggles warned Becca. "Don't draw attention to yourself."

She nodded, her mouth dry. The noise of marching came closer. Peering between the leaves they could see an untidy procession of prisoners, accompanied by armed guards. The men looked dejected, putting one foot in front of the other automatically.

Becca scanned the faces anxiously, looking for her father. They all looked grim and miserable. When the last of the sorry marchers had passed she shook her head.

"He was not there," she breathed, unsure whether to be pleased or not.

"We'll give them time to get clear and then head for the quarry," decided Biggles. "The sooner we reconnoitre that, the better."

When the tramp of marching feet could no longer be heard, Biggles stood up and headed for the road.

"Aren't we going across country?" queried Algy.

"We'll make better time on a metalled surface," replied Biggles. "We'd better split into pairs so as not to make such a conspicuous party," he advised. "Ginger, you come with me – Algy, you and Becca wait here a moment or two, then follow on, keeping about five yards behind us; near enough to keep in touch, but not so close that we seem to be all one group. Keep your eyes and ears open and stay alert for trouble."

So saying he looked briskly up and down the road. Seeing no one, he descended the bank and made his way onto the carriageway. Ginger followed at his heels. As soon as the lad had reached his side, Biggles set off at a steady pace. Ginger trotted along beside him in silence. At length he asked, "Have you thought about what you'll do when we get to the quarry?"

Biggles grimaced. "Not yet. As I said, it all depends on what I find when we get there. When I see the lie of the land, I'll have a clearer idea of what to do."

Ginger fell silent and concentrated on keeping up with his companion. He frequently marvelled at Biggles' stamina; the man seemed to go on indefinitely and never get tired. He himself, young as he was, was just beginning to feel the strain when Biggles halted.

"According to Joseph," he muttered, looking at the surrounding countryside, "there ought to be a path which will bring us around to the back of the quarry."

Ginger's eyes swept the area. He leaned forward slightly to concentrate his vision on a narrow track in the grass.

"Over there," he exclaimed pointing to the faint depression.

"Well spotted, laddie," murmured Biggles approvingly. He glanced behind. Algy and Becca, deep in conversation, were just coming into sight around a bend in the road. When he was sure they were watching him, Biggles left the road and headed for the track. Now that there was more cover, he halted to wait for the pair to catch up.

"Are they coming?" he asked Ginger who was lingering nearer the road.

"They've stopped," the lad told him. "I think they're just waiting for that car to go past." He watched as a black limousine drew up to the couple. To his horror, instead of carrying on past it stopped.

Biggles saw the change in the boy's expression. "What is it? What's the matter?" he asked, striding up to join him. When he caught sight of the vehicle his mouth set in a grim line.


	20. Shocks for Algy

**Chapter 20**

**Shocks For Algy**

Walking along the road with Becca Algy almost forgot about their mission. The sun was pleasantly warm and there was no traffic to speak of. He found Becca a delightful companion and the miles passed easily. There were worse ways of spending time, he mused, than walking in the country in good weather with a pretty girl at his side.

Biggles strode on ahead with Ginger obediently trying to keep up. Algy smiled. The lad had not grown very tall and he was struggling to match Biggles' stride.

When Becca asked him what he found so funny he explained about how they had met Ginger and how he had come to be a part of their lives.

"He is not your younger brother?" she asked him curiously.

Algy's smile broadened. "I don't have a younger brother," he told her. "I'm the youngest son. My father has an heir and a spare."

Becca looked puzzled because the expression was new to her and she repeated it, questioningly. Seeing her confusion, Algy explained that his elder brother would inherit the earldom. That led on to a comparison of British and German titles and in no time at all, Algy realised that Biggles was out of sight.

"We'd better get a move on," he observed. "We don't want to lose touch!"

Becca nodded and they put on a spurt. When Biggles and Ginger came into view once more, Algy and Becca resumed their conversation, glancing up from time to time to make sure they did not lose sight of their leaders again.

Inevitably, as the road wound round the contours, Biggles and Ginger disappeared from view from time to time, and Algy was relieved to see them reappear each time the road straightened out.

This continued for some time and Algy was beginning to wonder how long it would be before they reached their destination. He could see that Becca was beginning to tire. At last, as they rounded a slight bend, Algy saw in the distance that Biggles had stopped at the side of the road. There was no sign of their destination and there seemed to be no reason for Biggles to halt in that spot. Algy frowned, gazing at his cousin. As soon as he saw he had Algy's attention, Biggles turned on his heel and plunged off the road into the undergrowth, closely followed by Ginger, and the penny dropped.

"There must be a shortcut," Algy told Becca. "I can't see it from here, but Biggles must have been waiting to make sure we didn't walk past."

Becca sighed wearily. Algy squeezed her arm reassuringly. "It can't be far now," he encouraged her.

Becca smiled at him. "You are always so positive," she observed. "Are all Englishmen like you?"

Algy smiled. "Not all of them, no."

They continued towards the place where Biggles had left the road. There was a faint track, but if he had not known it was there, Algy realised he would have missed it. They were just about to leave the road when he heard a car coming. Smothering a curse at the ill luck which brought a vehicle along at that precise moment, when they had had the road to themselves for the last hour or so, he stopped at the kerbside.

"We'd better wait until this car goes past," he told Becca, "I don't suppose they'll pay any attention to us, but if they do, striking off across country might make them suspicious."

He glanced along the road. The car rounded the bend and drove towards them. It was a large, black limousine like the one they had seen von Stalhein using. Algy felt his mouth go dry. It would be the most rotten luck if Erich should happen to drive past now, he told himself. His muscles tensed as the car drew nearer.

It pulled out as if to pass them and then slowed to a halt. The windows were dark so it was impossible to see who was inside. Algy could feel his heart beating faster. Beside him, Becca was shaking.

The window wound down. The driver was alone in the vehicle. Algy looked at him closely. He was a stranger, but that did not mean there was no danger. The car most probably belonged to an official. If they were asked for their papers or the reason for their journey, the next few moments could be quite tricky, he realised. He felt acutely aware of the weight of the revolver he had stowed in his pocket. He would have a hard time explaining that away if he were searched. Casually he put his hand in his pocket and grasped the butt.

The driver leaned forward and fumbled in the glove compartment. Algy watched warily, ready for anything. After a few moments, the man drew out a sheet of paper and glanced at it.

Algy swallowed, his eyes on the driver, his nerves taut. He could not see what was on the paper, but if von Stalhein had circulated pictures of Biggles and himself, he knew the driver could be confirming that he had caught one of the wanted foreigners.

After what seemed like an age, the driver looked up and asked in German if he was on the right road for Mauthausen. He named a location near the camp.

Becca was gripping Algy's arm so tightly it was painful. With an effort, she pulled herself together and answered in the same language, giving the man directions to the town, but adding that she was on holiday in the area and could not be more precise.

The driver smiled, glancing from her to Algy, and wished them both a happy stay. He thanked them, wound up his window and drove off. Algy let out his breath in a long sigh and took his hand out of his pocket. Becca buried her head in her hands and sobbed. Algy put his arm around her shoulders.

"It's alright," he reassured her. "He's gone and there's no harm done. Let's get after Biggles; he'll be wondering what on earth has happened to us. I hope he hasn't got too far ahead."

Shakily Becca nodded. As soon as he was sure the car was out of sight and there was nobody watching, Algy helped her descend the bank. They picked up the track and made the best speed they could over the uneven ground.

Rounding a clump of bushes, they came across Biggles and Ginger, waiting together.

"Am I glad to see you!" exclaimed Algy with feeling.

"What did that car want?" asked Ginger. "I thought you were going to be whisked off by von Stalhein and we'd never see you again!"

"You're not the only one," Algy told him fervently. "Those were the worst few moments of my life, but he only wanted to ask directions."

"We'd better get cracking," observed Biggles. "We've wasted enough time. We don't want to be caught out in the middle of nowhere in darkness and we still have a fair distance to cover. It isn't going to be easy making good time on this uneven ground."

They turned their backs on the road and began to follow the narrow track towards the quarry.


	21. Shocks for Smyth

**Chapter 21**

**Shocks For Smyth**

Smyth returned to the cabin after checking that the aircraft was well camouflaged and hidden from any casual passer-by. Not that there seemed to be anybody about, he thought, but it was as well to be careful. He was satisfied that everything was in order and the aircraft would start up at the first attempt should they need to make a quick getaway. It would be the work of a moment to drag the loose branches off the wings and fuselage.

Mrs Meier was sitting on a packing case, hugging her ribs, rocking gently and singing a sad tune quietly to herself.

"Do you fancy a cup of tea?" asked the mechanic kindly. "I'm just thinking of having a brew up."

She looked at him and smiled sadly. "You are very kind, Mr Smyth," she said. "Yes, I will take tea with you."

As Smyth prepared the primus, she asked him why he had decided to come to Austria. "You must have a family back home?" she suggested enquiringly. "Is it not a little dangerous for you to help to try to rescue my husband?"

Smyth filled the kettle and pumped the stove vigorously. "I couldn't let the Major and Captain Lacey down," he said. "They needed a mechanic and I can act as another pilot at a pinch, so they asked me. I used to be one of their ground crew when they were in the RFC – the Royal Flying Corps," he added in case she had not heard of the service. "Between the wars I flew with them when they went off to South America. We had some good times then," he smiled, reminiscing. "We were away for weeks, even months, at a time. Camping out, landing and taking off from rivers, coping with jungles, snakes, natives, pirates …" he sighed nostalgically.

"Besides," he continued in a matter-of-fact tone as he put a match to the paraffin fumes, "married life is all very well, but I missed the good old days, the adventure and the need to keep the kites flying at all costs." He paused while the water came to the boil, then continued self-consciously. "I think my missus could see I was getting a bit restive – she was all for me going when the Major asked me."

"She is very understanding," commented Mrs Meier as Smyth poured the boiling water on the tea leaves.

"Yes, well," muttered the mechanic. "We'll just leave that to brew a bit, shall we?"

Mrs Meier frowned in puzzlement. "The tea, I mean," clarified Smyth. "I can't abide a weak brew."

"Ah, yes, the tea. It seems to me that if there were no tea, the English would not function."

"I think you're about right at that," agreed Smyth as he poured out the dark brown liquid and added a dollop of evaporated milk. "You can't beat a good cup of tea!"

He handed his companion an enamel mug and they sipped the hot beverage in silence. If they had been talking they might have missed the first faint sounds of approaching footsteps rustling through the bushes that warned they were soon to have company.

Smyth signalled Mrs Meier to keep quiet and moved to a window that offered a view of the open space they had landed on. There was nobody in sight, but the sounds were rapidly getting louder. The intruder, whoever it was, was coming closer. Smyth frowned. The noise grew in volume and he realised it was not one person but several. In fact, thought Smyth, it was starting to sound like a body of men marching. At length, a group of youths in a uniform of brown shirts and black shorts with a neckerchief and armband, all carrying rucksacks, filed out into the clearing. A band of boy scouts on a hike, was the mechanic's first impression, but then he saw the swastika symbol on their sleeves and quickly realised they were a far more sinister gathering.

Smyth's mouth set in a grim line as he saw them stop and drop their packs on the ground. It was clear they had reached their destination and were about to settle down. He hoped they were not going to stay there long; if they decided to camp the night they could pose a problem should the others complete their mission easily and come back early. Not knowing about the unwelcome encampment, Biggles' party could easily stumble on them in darkness when they brought the professor back to the aircraft. That, thought Smyth uncomfortably, _would_ put the cat among the pigeons.

In the clearing, the Hitler Youth made themselves comfortable. They spoke to each other loudly as they spread out their kit on the ground, their voices carrying clearly across to the Cormorant. One of them, a tall, bow-legged boy, sporting a fancy lanyard on his shoulder, sniffed the air and made a comment. The others laughed loudly and in the aeroplane, Mrs Meier caught her breath, shuddering.

"What did he say?" whispered Smyth who only understood a few words of German.

"He said it was good to get away from the city and breathe fresh air, free from the stench of the Jews," she breathed.

Smyth grimaced. "Who does he think he is?" he muttered through clenched teeth. "Don't worry," he reassured Mrs Meier. "I won't let them harm you."

"You don't know them," sighed the professor's wife dispiritedly. "They are convinced they are the _Ubermensch_ – the Master Race. They are the future of the Reich and they can do anything they like and get away with it."

"We'll see about that," vowed Smyth incensed. He watched as the young Nazis gathered wood to make a fire and disposed themselves around it. Soon the sound of youthful voices upraised in song drifted across to the hidden observers.

"Well, that's one good thing," opined Smyth. "They're making so much racket nobody is going to stumble across them unawares!"

Mrs Meier shook her head sadly. "If you could understand the songs you would not think it is a good thing," she told him quietly. "It exhorts them to kill the Jews."

Smyth looked shocked. He had only expected trouble if Biggles and the others arrived while the youths were camped in the clearing. Carefully he opened the hidden compartment and took out the remaining pistol. He checked that it was loaded and the safety catch was on. His eyes met Mrs Meier's. "If there's any killing to be done," he vowed quietly, "it won't be of Jews!"


	22. So near yet so far

**Chapter 22**

**So Near Yet So Far**

Biggles looked at his watch. According to the information Joseph had given him, he calculated they should be close to the quarry, but he could hear no sounds of blasting or any industrial activity.

They marched on in single file, saying nothing. At last, Biggles held up his hand. "Wait here," he instructed the others. "I'm going to recce the trail ahead."

Behind him, Ginger sank down on his haunches, glad of a breather, while Algy and Becca threw themselves on the ground with relief. The march had been a stiff one, with Biggles setting a brisk pace despite the difficulty of the terrain.

Biggles moved forward, making as little sound as possible. Ahead of him, the track emerged into open country and in the distance he saw what he had been aiming for, the floor of the quarry. Taking advantage of the meagre cover afforded by the nature of the ground, he advanced on his objective.

Hidden in a dip, he surveyed the scene. Scores of prisoners were breaking rocks under the watchful gaze of armed guards. His heart sank. Not only would it be difficult to get near the prisoners because of the openness of the terrain, he saw, but there were too many guards to risk a frontal assault.

As Biggles watched, the prisoners shouldered heavy slabs and made their way across to a staircase cut in the side of the cliff. It rose steeply, the broad steps shallow and uneven. One by one the prisoners struggled to carry their burdens up the staircase. The guards urged them on with blows and curses. When one man, clearly at the end of his tether, collapsed under the heavy weight, a guard kicked him until he staggered upright again. Biggles' lips compressed in a thin line.

He scanned the haggard, unshaven faces but could not recognise the professor from the photographs he had seen before he left. As the prisoners were all dirty and unkempt, Biggles thought it possible that the man's appearance had changed so much it would need a close family member to identify him. He wormed his way back under cover and went back to his waiting companions.

"Well?" queried Ginger as Biggles appeared. "Is he there?"

Biggles shook his head. "I can't recognise him. Perhaps Becca will have better luck."

Before they moved, Biggles outlined the difficulties of getting near the quarry and instructed them on the best method of approach. When they were in position, Biggles touched Becca on the arm and pointed at the workforce.

"Can you spot your father?" he breathed in her ear.

Becca looked closely, scanning the downtrodden faces for the well-loved features. The men all looked gaunt and haunted, their spirits as broken as their bodies by the unremitting, back-breaking work. Her gaze travelled from one to another; all shared the same hopeless demeanour. She was about to give up and admit defeat when she spotted a familiar figure descending the staircase. He had lost several kilos and he stooped more than he did, but her heart leaped when she realised it was her father.

Breathlessly, she caught Biggles by the arm and pointed. "That's him!" she exclaimed quietly, but with exultation in her voice. "He's over there!"

Biggles followed the direction of her outstretched arm. "Let's get back under cover," he murmured, "and see what we can do to get him away from here."

They retreated as quietly as they had arrived. Back on the track, Ginger asked what the plan was.

Biggles pursed his lips. "I think we should make our way to the top of the staircase," he opined. "It isn't going to be possible to get him away from the quarry floor. We can't get near enough without being seen and there are too many guards."

"We'll be seen if we try to walk up there!" exclaimed Ginger.

Biggles regarded him with exasperation. "I wasn't planning on walking up in broad daylight," he responded. "We shall have to find a way round and reach the summit by some alternative route."

"Can't one of us infiltrate the work party and try to get the professor away?" asked Algy.

"I considered that," replied Biggles, "but unless we can get hold of striped clothes and a yellow star, we'd be spotted immediately. In any case, getting clear would be a risky business with those trigger happy SS men on the lookout for trouble."

"It's a pity we couldn't knock one of the guards on the head and pinch his uniform," muttered Ginger. "That would be better."

"What are you suggesting?" asked Biggles.

Ginger shrugged. "I don't know exactly. Attract his attention and get him somewhere we could ambush him."

Biggles frowned, considering the proposition, but before he could speak, Algy, who had been watching the work party, broke in.

"We may not have to worry about that," he warned, "one of the guards is headed this way."

All eyes immediately switched to the quarry. One of the armed guards had left the prisoners and was making straight for their hiding place. His sub-machine gun was held across his chest, ready for action.

The guard stopped and looked back briefly at the prisoners before scanning the comrades' hiding place. He started off again with a purposeful stride.

Ginger felt his stomach sink, feeling sure that despite their precautions they had been spotted.

"What are we going to do?" he whispered.

"It was your idea to attract him over," countered Biggles dryly. "What do you suggest?"


	23. Brisk work

**Chapter 23**

**Brisk Work**

Before Ginger could reply, Algy broke in, "I don't think he's spotted us. There are three of us and only one of him. We should be able to overpower him with the advantage of surprise."

"You're right," acknowledged Biggles. "Ginger, take Becca out of the way further along the path and stay with her."

Ginger started to protest but Biggles cut him short. "Let's have no arguments. You look after Becca." Ginger closed his mouth and indicated that Becca should follow him. When the pair had retreated out of sight, Biggles continued, "Algy, you hide in the bushes ready to hit him over the head when he's out of sight of the quarry."

"Where will you be?"

"I'll be here to distract him while you're doing your Errol Flynn act," replied Biggles.

"What if he shoots you as soon as he sees you?" asked Algy, aghast.

"Then you are in charge of the party and it'll be your problem to get the professor back to England," Biggles told him unemotionally as he pulled a cigarette out of his case and put it in his mouth. "Hurry up!"

Algy shrugged and did as he was bade. Biggles stood in the clearing and lit his cigarette. Moments later, the guard plunged out of the undergrowth. He pulled up short when he saw Biggles. His surprise seemed to be total.

Before the man could raise his gun and fire, Algy clubbed him with the butt of his revolver. The guard collapsed in a heap.

"Nice work," approved Biggles laconically. "Let's get his gear off and I'll slip back into the work party before he's missed."

Suiting the actions to the words, he put on the guard's uniform and slung the machine gun across his chest. Using his and Algy's handkerchiefs they bound and gagged the unconscious German.

"Get Ginger and Becca and take them round to the top of the quarry steps," Biggles told his cousin. "You'll have to go around but you should be there before the prisoners have to go back to camp. I'll let the professor know we're here and we're going to get him back to England. I shall have to keep my wits about me and seize any chance I can to get him away before we get back to the barracks. I shall be looking out for you at the top of the steps."

With that, Biggles pushed his way out of the bushes and made his way back across to the quarry floor. Algy watched him go with deep misgivings, but wasted no time in bringing Ginger up to date with the way their plan had worked out.

"Let's get cracking!" exclaimed Ginger as soon as Algy had finished. "We don't know how long it will take us to get round to the top of the steps and Biggles will need all the help he can get." Without waiting for a reply, he set off back down the track with Algy and Becca close behind.

When they neared the road, Ginger hesitated, unsure how to proceed. Algy offered the opinion that they would make better speed on the smoother surface, as Biggles had pointed out before. Acknowledging the wisdom of this advice, Ginger led the way onto the carriageway. There was no traffic and they made good progress.

When he estimated they had made sufficient distance to enable them to skirt the cliff, Algy touched Ginger on the arm. The lad stopped and looked at him enquiringly.

"I think we should strike off across country here," suggested Algy. "We ought to be able to cut across and reach the top fairly easily."

Ginger scanned the landscape and tried to visualise it from above. Realising Algy was right, he nodded. "Do you think Biggles will be alright?" he asked tentatively. "I don't like leaving him on his own; I mean, it's such a risky thing to do – supposing they spot him."

Algy squeezed the lad's arm. "You know what Biggles is like," he observed quietly with a sidelong glance at Becca who had sat down beside the road to rest. "When he gets an idea in his head, there's no deflecting him." Seeing a flicker of alarm in the boy's face, Algy hastened to reassure him, "Biggles has the luck of the devil, you know that. He always says fortune favours the brave. I shouldn't be at all surprised to find he has got the solution. I bet the escape is all organised and the professor is as good as on his way home."

"I hope you're right," muttered Ginger.

'So do I,' thought Algy, but he kept his misgivings to himself, contenting himself with observing that it could not be far to the top of the staircase and they ought to get moving. He moved across and helped Becca up. She smiled at him through her tiredness.

"Do you really think your friend will be able to rescue my father?" she asked him hesitantly.

With a confidence he did not entirely feel, Algy told her he was sure of it. When they resumed their journey, if it was not with an air of optimism, then at least it was without a sense of despair.

They tramped on in silence until the sound of voices made them pull up short. Algy and Ginger quickly hustled Becca into the cover of some rocks. Slowly they inched their way forward to a spot from where they could see what was happening without being discovered.

From their vantage point, they watched as a line of exhausted prisoners hauled slabs of rock to waiting transport. The guards accompanied them, goading the captives to maximum effort with their rifle and machine gun butts.

An elderly prisoner fell. One of the guards who was following close behind kicked him but failed to get a response. The soldier, a corpulent man with a crew cut that emphasised his square skull, turned the body over and said something which caused a ripple of laughter among the other Nazis. As Ginger watched, the guard detailed two other prisoners to lift the man.

Ginger expected to see him taken to the transport so that he could receive treatment or, if, as he feared, the man was beyond help, be taken away for burial. To his horror, the prisoners, accompanied by the guard, took the body to the edge of the cliff. Clearly acting under orders, they flung it out into space.

Disgusted, Ginger started forward, but Algy restrained him, pushing him hard against the rock. "Keep still, you little fool!" he hissed. "Do you want to ruin everything and put Biggles in danger?"

Ginger stared at him as if seeing him for the first time. "How could they do that?" he asked, his voice harsh. "You wouldn't treat a dog like that!"

Algy said nothing, at a loss for words to explain the callous spectacle. It was Becca who answered him, her voice dull with resignation. "He was a Jew. He counted for nothing. Now you see what we are up against, how we are suffering."

White faced, Ginger met her eyes. "I had no idea," he breathed, shaking his head. He took a deep breath. "We'll save you and your family from fiends like that," he vowed passionately. "I don't know how we'll manage it, but we'll do it!"


	24. Slow progress

**Chapter 24**

**Slow Progress**

When Biggles left Algy to go back to the quarry floor, he had no fixed plan in mind. His appearance did not elicit any undue attention from the other guards so he surmised that the man he was replacing had been in the habit of sloping off, probably for an illicit smoke, from time to time.

Biggles worked his way across to where the professor was hammering a feather and wedge into a block of stone to split it.

"Don't look round," he warned the scientist, "I have come to take you back to England."

The professor stiffened for a moment at the shock of being addressed in English. Then the import of the message penetrated his brain. "What!" he exclaimed in the same language.

"Keep working," Biggles warned him. "Don't attract attention to yourself."

The professor swung his sledgehammer once more. As the metal wedge was driven into the stone, he glanced across at the man who had addressed him. His brow wrinkled in puzzlement when he saw it was a guard. "Who are you?" he asked as he worked. "How did you get here?"

"My name is Bigglesworth; I've been sent from London to get you away."

The professor's shoulders drooped and he sighed. "You are a brave man, Herr Bigglesworth, but you are wasting your time. I cannot abandon my family. The Nazis have taken them. I do not know where they are, but I know they are hostages. The Nazis are using them to try to force me to continue my work."

"That isn't true," Biggles assured him, "your wife and daughter are both safe with my colleagues. I intend to get you away from here when we go back to the camp at the end of the day and then you will all be reunited."

"Naomi? Becca?" the professor queried. "They are well?"

Biggles reassured him that they were.

"When they told me that my family was in custody," the professor informed him, his voice shaking with emotion. "I wanted to die. They have tried to force me to work for them, but I will not see my engines used by these beasts. I have refused – that is why I am here in the quarry. They hope it will break my spirit."

"They lied to you," averred Biggles. "My partner managed to get them both away before the SD came for them. They are both safe and will accompany us to England."

"How can I believe you?" the professor asked dejectedly as the stone finally split under a despairing blow. "There are so many lies told it is impossible to sort the truth from the falsehoods."

Biggles acknowledged the truth of the situation. "I can only prove to you I have spoken to your daughter," he confessed. "She told my colleague that she wanted to study law at university but she was not allowed to do so because of the Race Laws and that this would be a way of convincing you."

The professor gathered together the stones he had broken then nodded. "Only our family knew that," he admitted before asking, "how can I trust you? It could be a trick."

Biggles sighed with exasperation, but he could not blame the man for being sceptical.

"What have you got to lose?"

The professor considered this for a moment. He looked at Biggles and made up his mind. "I think you are telling the truth," he concluded. "You do not look like a man who will lie easily." He picked up the metal tools and inserted them into another block of stone. "How will you do this?" he queried. "The guards are armed."

"So am I," countered Biggles. "They won't be expecting trouble," he continued, "and I am not acting on my own; I have two comrades working their way to the top of the cliff as we speak. Your daughter is with them. I also have an aeroplane hidden waiting to fly you back home. Your wife is safe there with my mechanic."

The professor stopped for a moment and put his head in his hands. "I cannot believe it," he whispered. "It has been a nightmare." Straightening up, he took up the sledgehammer once more and swung it at the slab of stone. "They threatened to do dreadful things to my family if I did not co-operate," he told Biggles with anguish in his voice, "but I could not see my work used to further their ends."

While this conversation had been taking place, Biggles had continued to survey the quarry floor. There was a continual flow of prisoners breaking stones and hauling them up the steep pathway that climbed the face of the cliff. The guards strolled about, occasionally striking a prisoner for no more apparent reason than as a means of spurring him to greater effort. One in particular, a fat square-headed brute, seemed to take particular delight in this diversion. Biggles watched him, his eyes like flint, and vowed that he would make the man regret his cruelty as soon as he got the opportunity.

From time to time, a bottleneck formed. The prisoners who had stopped hewing stone formed a long line, queuing up to carry the large blocks up the steps to the top of the cliff. As far as Biggles could make out, the guards took it in turns to supervise the heart-bursting journey up the hundred odd steps and it became obvious to him that if he were to avoid suspicion, he would have to take his turn. If he was sickened by the effort imposed on the malnourished inmates, he was more distressed by the inhuman treatment his fellow guards meted out on that punishing climb. His mouth grew grim and he forced himself to keep a tight rein on his feelings. He ruthlessly suppressed the burning desire to give the men a taste of their own medicine as he witnessed the brutal beatings the prisoners were subjected to, consoling himself with the knowledge that their time would come.

Biggles looked at his watch. It was almost time for a return to the camp, he estimated. The others should have been able to get into position unless they had met with some unforeseen setback. As he had no way of knowing if they had, he decided his only option was to proceed as planned.

His eyes still on the activity on the quarry floor, he warned the professor it was time to start making his way up the staircase.

"I will stay as close to you as I can," murmured Biggles, "but I may not be able to protect you from the other guards."

"I am used to it," the professor told him as he shouldered a lump of rock. "I shall try to keep away from Bauer. He is the worst."

"He's the square-headed Prussian at the foot of the pathway?" asked Biggles.

The professor followed his gaze and confirmed it was. "He is a nasty piece of work," he told Biggles in a low voice. "He has been responsible for many deaths already."

"I'll remember that," vowed Biggles quietly as he followed the professor to the end of the line of prisoners.

Bauer was towards the head of the line, strutting past the prisoners, lashing out as the whim took him. The crocodile of human flotsam moved forward in a slow shuffle with the professor and Biggles bringing up the rear. Biggles could feel the strain on his muscles as he climbed and he was carrying nothing heavier than the sub-machine gun. What the effect on the prisoners was, laden with stone, he could only guess. Ahead there were occasional shouts and the sound of blows as a prisoner collapsed. The stream of cowed humanity wound its way inexorably upward. Just before Biggles breasted the summit, a bundle of rags flew past him into space, flung from the top of the cliff. He watched its flight, as it turned over and over. His puzzlement turned into revulsion as he realised it was a body.

"Good grief!" he muttered through clenched teeth. "What sort of men are these?"

"They are Nazis," the professor panted. "Sometimes they force people to jump. It is called the Angel's Leap."

"It may be a leap," observed Biggles trenchantly, "but there are no angels here."

"I fear you are right," agreed the professor sadly as they emerged onto the plateau at the top of the steps.


	25. Fortune favours the brave

**Chapter 25**

**Fortune Favours The Brave**

Algy let go of Ginger. "Get a grip of yourself," he told the youngster tersely. "If you want to make good that promise, we'd better watch out for Biggles."

Ginger nodded grimly. His anger had burned itself out and left in its place a steely determination. He took a glance around the boulder.

"I can see him," he whispered to Algy. "He's just come up the steps The professor is right in front of him."

Becca crouched next to him, eager for a glimpse of her father. "What are you going to do?" she asked breathlessly, pressed against Ginger's shoulder as she scanned the prisoners.

The lad hesitated. "I'm hoping Biggles will give us some sort of signal," he confessed. "We'll have to take our cue from him, really."

"We'll have to let him know we're here," observed Algy. "He can hardly risk starting something if he can't rely on us to back him up."

Ginger acknowledged the wisdom of Algy's words. "What do you suggest?" he asked. "How do we let him know without alerting the guards?"

Algy shrugged. "We'll just have to wait until he's within range and take a chance."

They settled down to wait as the bedraggled procession filed past the watching group. Biggles was the last in line with the professor immediately ahead of him. Algy realised it was now or never. Taking a risk that he might be heard by the other guards, he gave a low whistle as Biggles approached their hiding place. That his cousin heard him was plain. His head moved sharply in their direction and he nodded briefly.

They watched the other guards anxiously, but the signal did not appear to have been heard. "So far, so good," breathed Algy.

Ginger watched Biggles, his muscles taut for action, knowing that if they were to rescue the professor, it must be soon. If they allowed him to be taken inside the camp, the chances of success would be almost nil.

Becca gasped as Biggles pushed her father. He almost fell, but his momentum had taken him closer to the rocks where they watched. The other guards looked round, but did not react. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary in one of their number mistreating a prisoner, most of them turned back to herding the prisoners towards the camp. Bauer asked jokingly if any help was needed, but Biggles shook his head and laughed. Bauer made a comment about the superiority of the Master Race and carried on. Biggles breathed a sigh of relief and took advantage of the situation. He pushed the professor to the ground behind the rocks and feigned clubbing him with the butt of his machine gun. Algy and Ginger reached out and pulled the Jew into the safety of the boulders.

Becca threw her arms around her father's neck and sobbed. The professor looked bewildered by the speed of events.

Biggles appeared behind the rocks. "Let's get cracking," he ordered crisply. "Down the steps and back to the road as quickly as you can. They will expect me to make the most of torturing a poor Jew, but when eventually I don't turn up, they'll have search parties out for me. We haven't got a second to waste."

Keeping low and making the most of what cover was available, the party made its way with all speed to the edge of the staircase. Ginger hesitated on the lip as the vertiginous steps disappeared into the rapidly approaching darkness.

"Come on, laddie!" urged Biggles, glancing back towards the camp.

Ginger took a deep breath and plunged onward. The descent was terrifying. He thought at one stage that he was about to pitch headlong into the abyss, but Biggles caught his arm.

"You'll get used to it," he assured the lad and Ginger found after a while that this was true. Although he never felt entirely comfortable with the steep drop on his right, he did at least feel less nauseous as the attack of vertigo receded.

At last they emerged at the quarry floor at the foot of the steps. Biggles led them across to the narrow footpath that led to the road. The guard was still there in the bushes, conscious now, but bound and gagged as they had left him.

"Sorry about this," muttered Biggles, "but we can't afford to let you raise the alarm." With a swift blow, he knocked the man unconscious again and set off at a brisk pace toward the road, followed by the professor, helped along by his daughter, with Algy and Ginger bringing up the rear.

Before they emerged onto the roadside, Biggles halted to survey the stretch of asphalt. There was no sign of any traffic. "We need to make as much speed as we can," he told the others. "We'll stick to the road as far as possible, but if we hear a car coming, we'll have to get off and hide until they've gone past. If we start encountering a lot of vehicles, we'll have to strike across country. It will be slower going, but we shan't be going anywhere if we're in gaol."

"What about hi-jacking a car?" suggested Ginger. "We'd be able to travel faster still if we had transport."

"I considered that," replied Biggles, "but I think the risk is too great. There are too many variables we can't control and always assuming we managed to overpower the driver and get away in the car, if the driver got free and circulated the registration number we'd be sitting ducks for every policeman and SD member between here and Linz. We'll be better off on foot."

Ginger fell silent and Biggles beckoned them forward. They scrambled up onto the carriageway, Biggles and Algy helping Becca and her father, who looked all in.

After less than a mile, when it was obvious that the professor's condition was slowing their progress, Ginger tackled Biggles once more about trying to obtain some transport.

"I could lie down on the road as though I'd been knocked down and Becca could flag down a passing car to ask for help," he suggested. "If you hide in the ditch beside the road, the two of us ought to look pretty innocuous. Becca will be able to talk to the driver in German. I hope she'll be able to convince him I need to be taken to hospital. With any luck, he'll get out to help her get me into the car and that's when you tackle him."

Reluctantly Biggles agreed to the plan, although he had severe misgivings about the likelihood of being able to put it into operation, never mind bring it to a successful conclusion. The professor, however, was showing the effects of his ill-treatment in the prison camp and Biggles acknowledged that Ginger was right to make the attempt as soon as a suitable opportunity presented itself. In the meantime, they would have to make as much progress as they could.

At length, the longed for sound of a vehicle broke the silence. It seemed to be travelling slowly in the direction of Linz. "Okay, laddie," said Biggles as Algy helped the professor off the road. "This is your chance."

Ginger unwound the bandage from his cheek. The injury had stopped bleeding long ago, but the congealed blood formed a thick scab over the wound. Wincing, he scratched the crust away and the cut started to bleed again. He lay down on the road and flung out his arm as though thrown there by a collision with a car. Becca knelt down beside him. Without thinking, she wiped the blood from his cheek. "Don't do that!" exclaimed Ginger. "It makes it look more realistic. Smear it over my face."

Becca did as he said and had to admit the result was horrifyingly real. She could hear the car clearly now and stood up to wave it down. It was a black limousine like the one who had stopped to ask the way before.

The car coasted to a halt and the driver got out. It was the man who had asked for directions on their outward journey. "Well, what a coincidence!" he exclaimed as he recognised Becca. "What has happened to your friend?"

She started to explain as the man moved towards Ginger. Suddenly he stopped and seized her arm. "What is this?" he cried angrily. "Where is your friend who was with you earlier?"

"Behind you," replied Algy smoothly, covering the man with his pistol. "I'm sorry, but we need your car." The man spun round and let go of Becca, who ran across to where Ginger was getting to his feet. Algy gestured with the barrel of the weapon that the driver should move away from the car

Biggles came silently up behind the German and hit him over the head with his pistol. As the man collapsed, Biggles dragged him unceremoniously to the side of the road and let him slide down the slope.

"I hate this rough-house stuff," he commented as he let go, "but desperate times need desperate measures. Quickly, professor," he urged, giving the scientist a helping hand to ascend the bank. "I can hear another car coming; the sooner we are away from here, the better."

Algy slid behind the steering wheel and the others piled in. Algy let in the clutch and pulled away.

"Not a minute too soon by the look of things," said Biggles, looking through the rear window. "That other car is coming up behind us fast. You'd better let him go past."

Algy nodded to show that he had heard, but did not slacken his pace.

"It's a good job we've got darkened windows," commented Ginger. "At least they won't be able to see us."

Just how provident that accident of fate proved to be was demonstrated as the other car drew level with them. Algy glanced across as he drew to the side slightly to allow the overtaking manoeuvre. He nearly went into the ditch when he recognised the passenger in the back seat.

"Von Stalhein!" he exclaimed.

"Steady!" warned Biggles as Algy straightened the car. "Don't do anything to arouse suspicion."

"Do you think he's after us?" asked Ginger as their enemy disappeared into the distance.

"Anything is possible," mused Biggles. "He was certainly in a hurry. If he came to interrogate the professor and found that he'd apparently been killed by a guard who subsequently went missing, although no one can find the body, I think Erich will put two and two together and come up with the right answer. If that's the case, the sooner we get airborne the better."


	26. Ill met by moonlight

**Chapter 26**

**Ill Met By Moonlight**

The singing died down as the Nazi Youth retired to their sleeping bags. In the cabin, Smyth put the revolver where he could reach it handily. He looked at his watch and wondered how Biggles and the others were faring in their attempt to secure the professor's freedom.

In the clearing, the campfire flickered as the logs burned away, leaving a glowing ring of embers. As the light faded, the mounds that marked the sleeping Nazis disappeared in the engulfing darkness.

Smyth hoped fervently that his comrades would return in time to spot the faint glow and be warned. As the night wore on and the clearing slipped deeper into gloom, he became more and more anxious. He turned over Biggles' instructions in his mind. He knew that it was his job to look after Mrs Meier, but what if the professor were recaptured because he failed to warn them. Was it more important to make sure he was safe? After all, he reasoned, that was why they had come to Austria in the first place.

At length he could bear it no longer. Waking his charge, he warned her of what he was going to do.

"If anybody comes to the machine," he told Mrs Meier, "make sure you hide. You know how to pull the crates over yourself?"

Mrs Meier nodded. "I will get in the hiding place now," she told him. "That way you will know I am secure."

Smyth nodded approvingly. "Okay," he acknowledged. "That'll be one less thing to worry about. I'm not sure the Major will be all that pleased that I'm disobeying my orders and leaving you here alone, but I've got a feeling I ought to be on hand to warn them about our Nazi visitors out there."

Smyth took a last look around the cabin before he opened the door a crack and sniffed the night air. It was cool, with a slight scent of pine. It conjured up memories of camping expeditions before he had joined up. The night was still, not even an owl hooted. Smyth told himself he would have to be especially quiet. Sound would carry a long way in such stillness. Like a wraith he left the aeroplane and skirted the clearing, heading for the direction from which he expected his comrades. In the distance, a car sped along the road. He could see the lights. He hoped that the rescue party was not walking back when it passed.

His eyes had adjusted to the darkness now and he could see more of his surroundings. The canopy of trees overhead stood out against the faint starlight of the sky, blotting out the pinpoints of distant galaxies with its branches. There was virtually no cloud, but the moon had not yet risen. A good night to fly, he surmised, but nowhere to hide. Down by the river a faint mist was rising. Just enough to blur visibility, but not enough to blot out the landscape entirely.

Another car swept along the road, travelling more slowly. As he watched, it drew to a halt and his nerves twitched. The lights went out and he lost sight of it in the distant haze.

Smyth held his breath. If the car contained storm troopers, he told himself, he would have to get back to the aeroplane and try to take off as best he could. Biggles' instructions had been to look after Mrs Meier and after what he had witnessed in the clearing he was not about to let her fall into enemy hands.

He strained his ears and detected the far off rustle of several pairs of feet swishing through the grass. Carefully, he advanced towards the sound. As he got nearer, he could make out dark shapes. There were five altogether and two of them were smaller than the others. Encouraged by this observation, Smyth moved nearer. As the party advanced, the leader was silhouetted against the skyline. Smyth caught his breath when he realised the man was wearing a Jerry helmet. The faint starlight gleamed on the barrel of a sub-machine gun. Smyth's hand tightened on his pistol.

He turned his attention back to the rest of the party and scrutinised them carefully. It was hard to make out any detail but one of the smaller figures looked like a woman and the other a young lad. He felt sure they were Ginger and Becca returning. Puzzled by the German soldier with them, he hesitated. Had they been captured and forced to lead the Germans to the aeroplane? What had happened to the Major and Captain Lacey?

The group stopped for a moment and came together. Were they about to launch an attack? Smyth drew out his weapon and eased off the safety catch, prepared to sell his life dearly if it came to an all-out assault.

"It can't be far now," whispered one of the figures. "We're nearly there."

"Mr Lacey!" hissed Smyth and the party stopped dead.

"Smyth?" queried Biggles in a low voice. "Where are you?"

The mechanic emerged out of the darkness, slipping the pistol back in his pocket.

"What on earth are you doing here?" Biggles demanded with asperity. "I thought I told you to stay with Mrs Meier."

Smyth cupped his hand round his mouth and warned Biggles about the party of Nazis in the clearing.

"We'll have to give them a wide berth, Sir," he observed quietly. "They sound a nasty bunch, judging by what they've been bellowing all evening."

"Good work, Smyth," murmured Biggles approvingly. "You know where they are, lead on."

The mechanic led them round to the entrance to the aeroplane. One by one the members of the party climbed in and Smyth pulled the door closed silently behind them.

"You said my wife was here," the professor accused Biggles.

"Smyth?" Biggles fixed his mechanic with a questioning look.

The airman went across and pulled aside one of the crates. In the hollow formed by the boxes, Mrs Meier was fast asleep. The professor woke her tenderly.

"Naomi!" he whispered.

She opened her eyes and stifled a cry of joy. "Reuben!" she exclaimed, throwing herself into his arms.

Ginger watched and felt a lump form in his throat. Suddenly it all seemed worth while.

"We're not out of the wood yet," observed Biggles. "What about our boy scout friends?"

"They just turned up out of the blue," Smyth told him. "With any luck, they'll carry on with their hike after they've had their breakfast."

"Talking of breakfast," broke in Algy, "I'm starving. What have we got to eat?"

"We can't risk lighting the stove, Sir," replied Smyth, "but I can knock up some bully beef sandwiches."

"That sounds just the ticket," smiled Biggles. "My stomach was beginning to think my throat had been cut."

Sitting in a circle they enjoyed the best meal they had tasted since the start of the adventure.

Biggles detailed Ginger to take first watch. "Wake me in two hours," he ordered. "Keep your eyes peeled. We don't want to be caught napping at this stage of the game."


	27. Warm work

**Chapter 27**

**Warm Work**

The night passed peacefully. Ginger woke Biggles at the end of his stint with nothing to report then turned in. He slept undisturbed until Biggles shook him by the shoulder the following morning. Light was streaming into the cabin and Smyth was preparing a scratch meal from the remaining supplies.

Ginger stretched, yawning. "What are our Nazi visitors doing?" he enquired.

"They've got their campfire going and are cooking sausages by the look of it," returned Algy, who was by the window.

"I hope they're not going to be too long before they move on," murmured Biggles. "I don't want to be hanging around here any longer than I have to. If von Stalhein has found out the professor has gone, this is soon going to be a very unhealthy locality."

"I think you're right," said Algy tersely from his vantage point. "It looks as though we've got more visitors."

There was a general rush to find somewhere to see what was happening. Out of the trees at the far end marched a band of uniformed Wehrmacht troops. The officer in charge halted his column at the camp and proceeded to hold a conversation with one of the Hitler Youth, marked out by his fancy lanyard as having some sort of authority.

What was said could not be heard, but the watchers could surmise by their gestures and demeanour that the soldiers wanted to know if the campers had seen anything unusual in the vicinity.

With a sigh of relief, the answer appeared to be in the negative, because the soldiers formed up and marched off in the direction of the road.

"Phew! That was close," breathed Algy.

"Don't speak too soon," Biggles warned him. "If they find any tracks leading here, we could still be in trouble."

Algy looked at him sharply. "It was dark, we're bound to have made some," he observed. "Let's hope they think our boy scouts have been out for a march," he added soberly.

Anxiously they watched as their unwelcome neighbours broke camp. After what seemed an age they formed up into their columns and began to move out. There was still no sign of the soldiers returning and Algy began to hope that their luck might hold.

Biggles opened the door and stood outside the aircraft, listening intently. Only birdsong disturbed the silence.

"Quick," he urged, "let's get the camouflage off and line the aeroplane up for take-off. We can't afford to waste a second."

Smyth, Algy, Biggles and Ginger tore away the branches and hastily rolled the aircraft out into the clearing. The engines were primed and they had just got aboard when Ginger spotted a movement at the edge of the wood. Before he could say anything a shout rang out and more figures emerged.

"That's torn it," muttered Biggles as the propeller swished round and the engine coughed into life, quickly followed by its companion on the other side.

With no time to run the engines up, he pushed the throttles open and the aeroplane began to move.

Agonisingly slowly it trundled across the uneven sward. Ginger could see the soldiers, alerted by the Hitler Youth, spreading out behind them. His heart missed a beat as the cold engines coughed then picked up and ran smoothly. The aircraft was moving faster now, but still nowhere near flying speed. He saw the soldiers take aim and heard the report of their rifles. Bullets whizzed past like angry hornets, but nothing hit the Cormorant. At last the tail lifted and the rumble of the wheels ceased. They had made it! Just as he was congratulating himself on their escape, there was a ripping sound and a bullet hole appeared in the port wing. Ginger watched in horror as the tear appeared in the fabric. He was only too well aware that air pressure could cause the wing to 'balloon' and rip the fabric off, with fatal results.

He kept his eyes glued to the spot as he waited for the tear to lengthen and seal their fate, but although the edges fluttered, they showed no signs of disastrous parting.

He made his way forward and informed Biggles, who was sitting grim-faced at the controls, keeping the aircraft at tree-top height in an attempt to put as much distance between himself and the army as possible.

"I suppose we got off lightly," he commented, "but it's going to make getting over the Alps a bit tricky. It's affecting the lift on that wing and we've a fair load on board. You'd better tell Smyth to shove all the stores overboard. The less we have to carry, the better."

Ginger went back and passed on the message. He watched the crates tumble through the air to burst open on the fields below. Some farmer was going to have a surprise when he came to move his cattle, he thought.

The aircraft responded more positively once the cargo had gone and Biggles expressed himself satisfied with the performance. The foothills of the Alps loomed ahead, their tops engulfed in cloud. Biggles headed for a pass, knowing his best chance of success lay in weaving his way through the peaks rather than trying to fly over them.

"Fighters six o'clock high!" warned Algy as they entered the narrow defile.

Biggles glanced over his shoulder and his mouth set in a grim line. "They might think we're a sitting duck, but they're at as much as a disadvantage as we are," he observed. "They'll only have one quick pass and they'll have to be careful or they'll hit the deck. They can only attack one at a time or they risk colliding with each other."

He kept half an eye on his opponent as he hugged the contours of the pass. When the leading enemy pilot made his move, Biggles waited until the last second before applying rudder and sending his craft skidding towards the rising ground. The bullets flashed past his wing tip and the attacking aircraft barely cleared the top of the ridge ahead.

His companions had clearly been unnerved by their leader's narrow brush with the mountainside. Their passes were hesitant, too far away and the pilots opened fire long before they were in range.

"The wingmen are inexperienced," grunted Biggles, as he kept his aircraft sliding round the sky, "but the leader knows his stuff. He's the one we've got to worry about."

Time and again the German machines thought they had the Cormorant in their sights, only to find that their bullets sliced through thin air. Biggles and Algy exchanged humourless smiles. "Quite like old times, isn't it?" commented Algy as Biggles flicked the machine on its wing and hauled it between the lowering hills.

The leader was clearly getting frustrated by his inability to bring down the defenceless machine. He came screaming down, guns blazing. Spurts of rock flew from the ground feet from their wingtip. Biggles held his course, with just enough sideslip to spoil the German's aim. The fighter, a sleek metal monoplane with a square cockpit, flashed past. Algy could see the pilot struggling to pull out as the mountain filled his vision.

As Algy watched, fascinated by the struggle, the enemy machine began to respond, but before it could clear the high ground, its wingtip touched, with the inevitable result. The machine cart wheeled and exploded in a ball of flame as it smashed into the rock wall of the canyon.

Biggles grunted in satisfaction. "That'll teach him!" he muttered laconically.

"It'll certainly stop him laughing in church," agreed Algy. "His pals seem to have had enough, anyway," he continued. "It looks as though they're shutting up shop."

The remaining fighters pulled up and wheeled away. Biggles kept his eyes alert for danger in case it was a ruse, but it seemed that they had no stomach for a fight once their leader was gone and when at last the Cormorant emerged into Swiss airspace, the chance of shooting it down without an international incident disappeared.

"You'd better see how our passengers are," suggested Biggles. "I don't suppose they appreciated the aerobatics."

Algy got up and made his way towards the cabin. "They'd have appreciated it a whole lot less if we'd spread ourselves all over the mountainside!" he observed cynically as he prepared to duck through the narrow doorway.


	28. Wrapping it up

**Chapter 28**

**Wrapping It Up**

There remains little to be said about their passage home. The rest of the journey was as uneventful as the first part had been exciting. The passengers, once they had restored their stomachs to their customary positions, were relieved to be on their way to England unscathed.

Once the wheels kissed the runway at Croydon, Biggles heaved a sigh of relief. The aeroplane rolled to a standstill in front of the terminal building.

Algy nudged his cousin. "Do you see who I see?" he asked incredulously. "How did he know we would be landing here now?"

Biggles followed the direction of Algy's gaze. In front of the entrance to the booking hall stood Air Commodore Raymond, accompanied by two men whose absent-minded air made him label them immediately as boffins.

"Don't ask me!" exclaimed Biggles. "I have never been able to fathom the way the mind of top brass works."

The Air Commodore and his companions came across to greet the occupants of the Cormorant as soon as they descended. It was clear that the scientists knew all about the professor and his work. They whisked him and his family away as soon as the formalities had been completed.

Raymond watched them go, his eyes solemn. "You may not know just what a service you've done for Britain," he told the assembled airmen gravely, "but I have a feeling it is going to become all too clear very soon."

Ginger thought about what he had seen in Berlin and at the top of the Steps of Death and felt a shiver of foreboding run down his spine.

"I think you're right," he murmured pensively. "I guess we got the professor out just in time."

The Air Commodore regarded him sombrely. "I'd say you're a pretty good guesser, young man," he told the lad. "What do you say to tearing a steak?"

"No prizes for guessing the answer to that one would be yes!" concluded Algy with a grin.

"It will be my treat," offered the Air Commodore. "It is the least I can do," acknowledged Raymond. "I certainly think you've earned it. The German High Command must be frothing at the mouth to lose such a valuable prize."

"I bet von Stalhein is hopping mad!" smiled Ginger. "He's a sore loser."

"Poor Erich," sighed Biggles as they made their way over to the terminal building. "He never seems to have any luck."

Leaving Smyth to put the Cormorant to bed, they piled into the Air Commodore's car for the short trip to a West End restaurant. As Ginger said, as he sank his teeth into the succulent meat, it certainly made a change from bully beef sandwiches. No one disagreed with him.


	29. Postscript

**Chapter 29**

**Postscript**

Some days after their adventure, Ginger sank down at the table in the Lyons Tea Shop they frequented and dropped his hat and gloves on the table.

Algy looked up from perusing _Popular Flying_ as his companion took his seat. "I've ordered coffee and buns," he murmured. "I thought you wouldn't be long."

"Good, my stomach thinks my throat's been cut," exclaimed Ginger. "There's something about ordering a new suit that really dries the throat and gives me an appetite!"

He glanced up as the waitress arrived at their table and began to unload her tray. She was new, but there was something familiar about her. 'I've met her before,' Ginger thought, racking his brains to pin down the elusive memory.

"That'll be one and sixpence, Sir," she said in a Geordie accent as she put their bill beside Algy's plate and the penny dropped.

"Thank you, Mavis," acknowledged Ginger as he dropped a half a crown on the slip of paper. "Keep the change."

She looked at him in astonishment then coloured as she recognised him. "I'm ever so grateful I took your advice, Sir," she told him. "I'm doin' really well now, got me own flat an' all. I'd never have done it without your encouragement."

Ginger smiled. "Sometimes, Mavis, we just have to pursue our 'fancy ideas'". He raised his coffee cup and saluted her before taking a sip. "Here's success to them!"

Mavis gathered up her tray, flustered, and bustled off to serve another customer.

Algy's eyes met Ginger's over the rim of his cup. "What was all that about?" he asked.

"Oh nothing," murmured Ginger. "Just a memory from the past; dead and buried now." He finished his coffee and stood up, cramming his hat on his unruly shock of hair. "Another life. Another era, you might say, and if the Air Commodore is right, that's not all that is coming to an end."

Algy accompanied him to the door. "I hear the news from Spain is not good," he observed as they passed out into the Strand.


End file.
